“Of course,” she said swiftly. “For Rome, there is always time.”
Octavian regarded her with fondness. “I am lucky in the women who surround me,” he said quietly, and Julia rolled her eyes at me. “I will make the notes and Vitruvius will hire the men next month.” He stood, and everyone who was riding rushed to follow him into the stables.
When he was gone, Livia smiled. “A pair of porticoes,” she said to Octavia.
“How generous of you.”
She raised her brows. “The money has to go somewhere. In Gaul, your brother gave me copper mines. And in Judea, entire estates of palm groves. And do you know what he’s giving me in Egypt?”
“A temple?”
Livia narrowed her eyes. “Why would I want that? There’s no money to be made from a temple.”
“Of course.” Octavia smiled. “It’s all about money.”
Livia laughed. “Oh, I see your charity in the Subura. You think you aren’t paid for that with smiles, and respect, and women who scrape the floor to kiss your feet?”
“No one has ever kissed my mother’s feet!” Antonia exclaimed, and everyone looked at her in shock. Even Vipsania, who was always giggling, covered her mouth.
“It’s still payment,” Livia said icily. “I just like my payment to be worth something.”
“You are a crass woman,” Octavia said.
“A crass woman with papyrus marshes. Dozens of them.” She grinned. “And there’s nothing half as profitable in the east as papyrus. Octavian is giving me my choice of fields. Perhaps Selene will help me choose the most valuable.”
“That’s enough!” Octavia stood, and for a moment I wondered if she was going to strike her. “Gallia, you may take Julia and Selene shopping. Return here before the exercises are over.”
Julia rose swiftly, amazed at her good fortune.
“You may take Selene,” Livia said, “but Julia is not going.”
“Julia is my niece,” Octavia said. “She is no blood relative of yours, and if I say she may shop, then she will shop. And if you make her life difficult for this, or I hear that you’ve punished her for obeying me, then my brother will hear of it.”
Livia’s eyes flashed, but she didn’t move, and Julia took my arm. Gallia rushed us away from the Campus, and as soon as we were out of earshot, I whispered, “How do you live with her?”
“She’s too busy watching Terentilla to notice me,” Julia answered.
I looked at Gallia. “Thank you.”
“It was Domina’s wish,” she said humbly. “I am only your escort.”
“May we go by the Temple of Venus?” Julia asked. “Selene would like to see the statue of her mother.”
“It is more than fifteen years old,” Gallia warned.
“I’ll still recognize her,” I promised, but when we reached the end of Caesar’s Forum and entered the Temple of Venus Genetrix, Gallia saw my confusion and smiled.
“Can you find her?”
Inside the cool marble halls, priestesses stood guard over the temple’s works of art. There was a statue of Julius Caesar that was unmistakable, since Caesarion had looked so much like him, and a statue of Venus half-dressed in linen. I skipped the collection of sparkling gems, although this was what caught Julia’s eye, and I passed over a stunning metal breastplate adorned with pearls from Britannia. I went from statue to statue, and it was only by the Alexandrian diadem in her hair that I finally recognized her. “Is this it?” I gasped.
“Kleopatra of Egypt,” Gallia replied.
Julia came to my side and asked eagerly, “Is that what she looked like?”
I studied the woman’s heavy breasts, her long Roman nose, and her pointed chin, then shook my head sadly. “No.” I could see that Julia was disappointed. “My mother was much thinner,” I told her. “With hands that were even smaller than mine.”
“Really? What about her face?”
Although the lips were correct, and the rich amber hue of her eyes, everything else was wrong. “She was plainer,” I admitted. “And her nose …” I hesitated. “It was different.”
“So Caesar did love her for more than her beauty.”
I nodded. “She could speak many languages. Egyptian, Ethiopian, Hebrew, Aramaic, Syrian, Median, Parthian.…”
“Latin,” Julia put in.
“Of course. And she lived very well.”
“Is it true, what they say about her drinking the pearl?”
I thought of the story my mother had often told to Alexander and me about her second meeting with our father. In an attempt to impress him with her wealth, she had promised him the most expensive feast ever consumed. When he arrived, there was a single goblet of wine on the table. She dropped her largest pearl into the goblet, and when the pearl dissolved she proceeded to drink the wine. I smiled sadly, remembering how my mother could be mischievous. “Yes. The pearl story was true.”
“I wish my mother were so well known.”
“Is she still alive?”
Julia tensed. “Somewhere,” she said curtly, and didn’t elaborate. “I heard that your mother showed you how to use eye paints. Do you think if Gallia takes us to the shops, you could show me, too?”
“Domina Livia would not like that,” Gallia warned.
“But we can do it in secret,” Julia promised. “Please,” she begged. “We never have any fun.”
Gallia hesitated, and in that moment she was lost.
“Come!” Julia exclaimed. “We’ll go to the street of the Etruscans.”
“Is that where Egyptian goods are?”
“That’s where everything is!”
Gallia dutifully led the way, and I wondered what the soldiers guarding us thought when they were forced to linger outside a shop for Egyptian aphrodisiacs and painted beads.
“These were what we used for our hair,” I explained. “But only on days when there were official ceremonies.”
Julia put her hands in the box of beads, enjoying the feel of the small faience trinkets as they ran though her fingers. “How many would we need?”
“For your hair? You’re not really going to use them?”
“Why not?” She grinned. “Tomorrow, we’re all going to the theater. Before we leave, I can come over, and you can put them in.”
“Livia will never allow it, and neither will Octavia.”
“Who cares what they think?” she asked merrily. “We’ll take them out before anyone can see.” When I hesitated, she gestured to the shopkeeper excitedly. “The entire box!”
“E-everything, Domina?” the old man stammered.
“Yes. Just hurry. You may send the bill to my father.”
He didn’t have to ask who her father was.
“Where shall we go next?” she asked eagerly, handing the purchase to Gallia. “I want to look just like a princess.”
“You are a princess.”
“A real one.” There was envy in her eyes. “With paints and silk tunics and all the things that women should wear if not for Livia. She’s just jealous, you know.” I followed her down the streets as she searched for an Egyptian cosmetics shop. “She wants everyone to be as plain and ugly as she is.”
I noticed that Gallia kept silent, though secretly I was sure she agreed. “What about this shop?” Gallia asked.
“Are there paints?”
“Of every color.”
We went inside, and Julia wanted a name for everything. Suddenly I knew how Marcellus must have felt when we were riding into Rome and my brother and I had asked him question after question.
Julia held up a jar of ochre.
“For the lips,” I said. “Sometimes for the cheeks.”
She placed the jar on the counter. “What about something for the eyes? Like Terentilla.”
“Domina!” Gallia gasped. “Terentilla is—”
“A whore? I know,” she said brightly.
“But she’s married to Maecenas,” I protested. “How could she be—?”
“She was
an actress. And we all know there’s not much difference between an actress and a lupa. But my father arranged their marriage.”
“To one of his closest friends? How can he—?”
“Oh, Maecenas isn’t interested in women. But he needed a wife, and my father needed an excuse for her to be near him.”
“Then why not marry her himself?” I asked.
“Terentilla? Because she doesn’t have a clan.”
“None at all?”
“Oh, I’m sure she has some clan. But they have no power to speak of. So what would he gain? But she’s beautiful, isn’t she? What do you think she uses for her eyes?”
I glanced warily at Gallia, whose look was disapproving. “Malachite,” I said slowly, “with antimony to line them.”
Julia gathered her purchases on the counter, and when the old man gave a total, Gallia exclaimed, “Nonsense! You are trying to overcharge.”
“So what?” Julia said. “My father has plenty of denarii to give him.”
Outside the shop, Julia passed her purchases to Gallia, who shook her head with deep misgivings. “We should hurry, Domina. The exercises will be over soon.”
“But what about Selene?” She turned to me. “Isn’t there anything you want to shop for?”
“I can’t. Alexander has our money.”
She waved her hand in the air. “You can send the bill to my father. He’ll never know who bought it.”
I smiled. “Perhaps in a few weeks I’ll get some new reed pens and ink.”
“That’s it?” Julia wrinkled her nose, but even when she made such an unbecoming gesture, she was beautiful. A hundred women were walking around us, but men’s eyes still lingered hotly in her direction. “What about the theater?” she demanded. “What will you wear?”
“Whatever Octavia gives me.”
Julia shook her head. “Absolutely not. We both need new tunics.”
“Domina!” Gallia protested faintly. “There is no time for that.”
“Then we’ll just purchase the fabric! No fittings,” she promised, and disappeared into the next shop before Gallia could protest further. Inside, bolts of beautiful cloth shimmered in the afternoon light. Silks in peacock blue, celadon green, and pewter gray were laid out among plainer fabrics of every hue. Julia held up a swath of gold silk against my skin. “This would be beautiful.”
“Domina Livia will never accept it,” Gallia warned.
“Livia doesn’t accept anything.” She glanced wickedly at me. “Let’s get it anyway. What can she do once we buy it?”
“She’ll take it back! An entire tunic of gold is not for the theater. And if Domina Octavia is offended, it will be the end of your shopping trips,” Gallia advised.
Julia hesitated. “Fine. Then this one.” She chose a bolt of violet silk that would go nicely with her dark skin, and while she arranged with the shopkeeper where to send the bill, I studied the riot of colors on display. Perhaps I should begin to add color to my drawings, I thought. Jars of red ochre and dazzling azurite were sitting entirely useless in my chests. I wasn’t allowed to wear them on my face, so why not use them as additions to my sketches?
As we left the shop, Gallia said sternly, “This is it. No more shopping anywhere. Understand?”
“Yes,” Julia said with a hint of mockery. We followed Gallia through the Forum Holitorium, where vegetables were being sold in stalls along the Tiber, and Julia babbled gaily about how I was going to dress her hair, and which colors would go best with her eyes. “Violet,” she decided, “to match our new tunics. I’ll have our tailor make them tonight, and tomorrow, when I come over we can—”
I stopped.
Julia looked behind her. “What’s the matter?”
In front of a towering column of the Forum, painted with graffiti and splattered with birds’ droppings, dozens of infants were lying in baskets. Some of them were wailing pitifully, others were holding up their arms to mothers who would never come. “What are these children doing here?” I cried.
“They’re foundlings.” Julia made to keep walking, but I remained. “You know,” she said in exasperation, “children who aren’t wanted.”
I looked to Gallia, who nodded sadly.
“You mean, they’re just left here, to die?”
Julia shifted uneasily. “There are wet nurses,” she pointed out. “That’s why they call this the Columna Lactaria.”
“But only some of the children are being fed!”
“Of course. How many wet nurses do you think there are who have nothing better to do with their day?”
I stared at the tired women who were leaning in the shade and doing their best to feed the crying infants. “But what about the others?” I asked.
“They die. They aren’t wanted, Selene.”
Gallia saw my look of horror, and added, “Not all of them. Some are taken as slaves, and others will go to lupanaria.”
“So how is that any better than death?”
Gallia said quietly, “Even in the most wretched life, there’s hope.”
Nothing like the Columna Lactaria existed in Egypt. There were herbs for women who wanted to be rid of pregnancies that happened while their husbands were at sea, and there were childless couples who were willing to adopt from unmarried mothers. Gallia took my arm and steered me away, but that evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about the abandoned children.
“What’s the matter with you?” Alexander asked testily. “You’re supposed to be helping me with Homer.”
I put away my schoolwork and took out my sketch book. I wasn’t in the mood for the Iliad.
“Selene, how am I supposed to do this alone?”
“You’ll manage. It’s not like we haven’t read it all before in the Museion,” I said flatly.
My brother stared at me. “Is this about the foundlings? Julia told me—”
“What?” I snapped. “That she didn’t look twice in their direction?”
Alexander held up his hands in a gesture for peace. “I didn’t know.”
“Well, you should. It was terrible, Alexander.” I blinked back my tears.
“There were children in baskets?” he asked.
“Everywhere. Just left out to die.”
“Surely not all of them—?”
“No. Some of them become slaves. And the unlucky ones end up in a lupanar.”
“The Romans have strange laws, don’t they?” he whispered.
There was a knock on the door, and I said angrily, “Let’s just pretend we’re asleep.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. There are two oil lamps burning.” He rose from his couch and opened the door. “Antonia,” he said in surprise.
She looked down at her sandals. Even for a small girl, her feet were tiny. “May I come in?” she asked. When Alexander scanned the hall behind her, she explained, “My brother is not allowed to leave his room tonight.”
Alexander stepped aside, and Antonia entered and looked around our chamber.
“Not much like Egypt, is it?”
“Better than prison,” Alexander replied.
She smiled fleetingly, and her eyes came to rest on me. “I heard you saw the Columna Lactaria today.” When I frowned, Antonia went on. “Gallia told me. My mother and I go every day to help them. She pays new mothers to suckle the infants.”
“So that’s why they do it?” I left my couch and sat on one of the embroidered chairs, indicating that Antonia should do the same.
She seated herself and nodded. “Yes. Some do it out of pity because they’ve just lost children of their own. But most of the women have their own babies, and they do it for the denarii.” She looked at me, and I had the strange sensation that she was trying to read my face. “Was our father charitable?” she asked quietly.
I glanced at Alexander.
“If that means emptying the treasury for his friends,” he said wryly, seating himself across from her on a chair.
Antonia looked at me, and when I offered no reversal, she presse
d, “So he didn’t help the poor?”
“Only if they were part of his army. But he built villas,” I said. “Spectacular villas along the coast.” I could see she wasn’t satisfied with this, and I added, “He was passionate. He loved to gamble, and race horses, and make friends.”
“So the two of you are more like him than I am,” she said, and there was the hint of resignation in her voice.
I cast around for something else to talk about. “So why don’t you study with us in the ludus?”
Antonia regarded me with her light eyes. “Because I study with my mother by doing charity work.”
“But what do you learn?”
“More than I would by shopping with Julia,” she said softly.
Alexander laughed, but I tensed at the rebuke.
“Oh, I’m not surprised.” Antonia waved her hand. “Everyone wants to be with her. She’s Caesar’s daughter. But my mother is as good a teacher as Magister Verrius. And when we aren’t reciting poetry together, we’re giving out bread in the Subura.”
My brother frowned. “And you like it?”
“Of course.”
“So why does Marcellus go to the ludus?” I asked.
“Because he will be Caesar’s heir. If he doesn’t ruin it for himself,” she added.
Alexander leaned forward. “You mean the Red Eagle?”
Antonia looked over her shoulder.
“We won’t say anything,” I promised readily.
Antonia hesitated. “Yes.”
“But do you really think he could be the rebel?” I exclaimed.
Antonia shook her head, and the ringlets that made her seem so young bounced over her shoulders. “No. He’s too rash. What interests him one day bores him the next. He doesn’t have the patience to make so many plans.”
“But you think he could be helping him,” my brother prompted.
Antonia looked down at her small, painted nails. “My mother says he is idealistic. Anything is possible. But even the mention of rebellion, and our uncle would send him to the island of Pandataria. If he was lucky.”
“Is that a punishment?” my brother asked.
She looked at him as though she couldn’t believe he’d never heard of it. “Yes. Hundreds of men—and women—have been sent to islands to starve, to scrape in the dirt or support themselves by diving for sponges. It’s better than being told to open your wrists,” she whispered, “and that’s what my mother says will happen to anyone who isn’t useful to my uncle. Men, women, senators, matrons. Look at your parents.”
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