The Egyptian Royals Collection

by Michelle Moran

  “Adoptions could be arranged.”

  “And the ones who aren’t adopted?” he asked.

  “Then they can be given to the temples and raised as akolouthoi.”

  Marcellus frowned.

  “Helpers,” my brother said.

  “And eventually priests and priestesses,” I added.

  Marcellus studied me, and the tenderness in his eyes made my heart beat faster. “It’s a wonderful idea, Selene. And if I ever become Caesar, I will see that it’s done.”

  “Really?”

  “Why not? You’re like my mother,” he said. “You only want what’s best for people.” He opened the door to leave, and I was surprised that Octavia hadn’t already come in and sent us to bed. Perhaps she was with her brother or Vitruvius.

  When Marcellus left, Alexander looked sternly at me. “Don’t think it. He’s meant for Julia, Selene.”

  “I’m not thinking anything!”

  “Yes, you were. And you might as well stop it.”

  He blew out the lamp and fell asleep. But I was still awake when a window slowly opened next door. There was a dull thud as something hit the ground outside. I raced to our balcony and threw back the curtains in time to see Marcellus disappearing into the darkness. What could he be thinking, with so many of his father’s guards outside? Perhaps they were in his pay. So far as I knew, word had never reached Octavian about our trip to the Temple of Isis or what Marcellus had told the centurion. But I wondered where he could be going that was worth the risk.

  When I entered the library the next morning, Vitruvius studied me with an interested gaze.

  “I hear you saved Caesar’s life yesterday.”

  Heat crept into my cheeks. “It was Juba who saved him.”

  “But you sounded the alarm. You are very quick. And that’s why someone as sharp as you will be able to understand this.” He unfurled a long scroll and laid it on the table in front of me.

  “Octavian’s mausoleum,” I said.

  Vitruvius nodded.

  Octavian had wanted something as impressive as my mother’s tomb in Alexandria, with tall marble columns and a towering dome. But even though the sketch had a similar dome and the mausoleum was surrounded by a round columned portico, the building lacked the grandness of my mother’s mausoleum. It was raised above the ground on a circular platform that would probably be made of limestone, with a flight of steps sweeping from the bottom to the top. The stairs were flanked by a pair of red granite obelisks, and although there was simple elegance to it, no one would ever stop in amazement as people had done in Alexandria. I looked up from the sketch to Vitruvius and guessed, “You have made something simple that won’t insult the plebs. Because right now he’s afraid of assassination, and of appearing too powerful, like Julius Caesar.”

  Vitruvius smiled. “Indeed. Perhaps last night was the work of a lone man, or perhaps the assassin was really with this traitor the freedmen have taken to calling the Red Eagle. Either way, the people are angry.”

  “What will Caesar do?”

  “What can he do?” Vitruvius rolled up the scroll. “Enough attempts and the plebs will begin to believe that Caesar is a tyrant. He can build the grandest stadia and baths in Rome, but for himself, it must be something simple.”

  “But will he like it?”

  “He appeared to like it very much when I showed it to him this morning.”

  “He was up?”

  “He is always up. Pacing, writing, preparing speeches for the Senate.”

  “And will you show me how you executed this?” There were measurements next to every wall shown in the sketch, and near the stairs there were equations I couldn’t understand.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have time for a lesson today.” When he saw my disappointment, he added, “But in a few days I shall. Until then, these are the chambers inside the mausoleum.” He handed me a scroll on which he’d drawn empty rooms, labeling each one with its dimensions next to it. “Furnish them,” he said simply. “Add mosaics, caryatids, fountains. The plebs will only see the outside, so the furnishings can be as lavish as you want. And if I like what you’ve drawn, I may incorporate it in the final construction.”

  I was shocked by the trust Vitruvius was placing in me. “Thank you,” I said, and Vitruvius smiled. “These will be my best sketches,” I promised him. I rolled the scroll carefully.

  As I was leaving, Vitruvius added, “Rome is proud of you. Caesar will not forget what you’ve done.”

  I turned. “Do you think it means that Alexander and I will be sent back to Egypt?”

  Vitruvius hesitated. “Caesar has sent a prefect to rule Egypt in his place.”

  “But he could be recalled.”

  “He could.” His voice didn’t offer much hope. “But before that would ever happen, Caesar will want to arrange your marriages. You must be very careful these next few years, Selene. You have seen Caesar at his most merciful,” he said quietly. “But when they find this bowman, he will be crucified. And whoever helped him to get on stage, even if it was Terentilla herself, will die with him.”

  I nodded. “I’ll be careful,” I promised.

  “And watchful.”

  I began by being watchful in the ludus. When Magister Verrius read passages from the Iliad, I noticed how he lingered on the passages that described Hector’s wife and children, who were sold into slavery. He described Hector’s fight as heroic, his death as valiant, and the sacking of his city as the greatest tragedy, since its inhabitants would lose, if not their lives, then their freedom. The longer he spoke about the bitterness of slavery, the more convinced I became that he could be the Red Eagle and that Marcellus was helping him.

  Antonia had seen him with Gallia on the Palatine, and while it was possible that Gallia was writing the acta alone, it seemed far more probable that someone with access to supplies of papyrus and ink was behind them; someone whose presence on the Palatine would never be questioned, who had a quick wit and a reason to be angry. And if Verrius and Gallia were lovers, wouldn’t that be reason enough to rebel against slavery? Slaves were not allowed to marry unless freed, and on a magister’s salary, he could never afford a Gallic princess’s freedom.

  That afternoon, I studied Gallia as she mended a tunic on the portico at the Campus Martius. She didn’t appear worried that someone might approach her with evidence of treachery. Although, when Marcellus announced that it was time for us to go to the Circus Maximus and Juba suddenly appeared at her side, I could see she was surprised. “Are you coming with us?” she asked Juba.

  “Those are Caesar’s orders.”

  “But we already have guards,” Julia complained. “Why do we need more?”

  “Perhaps you would rather stay at home,” Juba suggested. “There’s nowhere as safe as your own chamber.”

  Julia narrowed her eyes, and as we made our way to the Circus she grumbled, “Now we can’t do anything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Juba is here. My father and he are like Romulus and Remus.”

  “Didn’t Romulus kill Remus?” Alexander asked warily.

  “You know what I mean!” Julia said irritably. Behind us, Gallia and Juba were walking together, their heads bent in quiet conversation. “Everything we do will get back to him now. At least Gallia is a slave and knows enough to keep silent.”

  I glanced behind me, hoping Gallia hadn’t heard what she’d said. “And what about the guards who always follow us?” I asked. “Don’t they report back to your father?”

  “Of course not,” Marcellus answered. “We pay them.”

  “You mean bribery?” my brother exclaimed.

  “Just a few denarii. And only when I’ve gambled too much, or visited a place I shouldn’t have.” He winked at my brother, and I wondered if he could mean a lupanar.

  When we approached the Circus, a large crowd was gathered around the entrance, and Juba said sternly, “What is this?” He pushed his way to the front and the people fell away from him
. “Another actum?” he shouted. “Who did this?” Suddenly, no one was interested anymore, and Juba grabbed the closest man by the arm. “When was this placed on the door?”

  The man shook his head. “I don’t know.” He trembled. “I saw it here this morning after we opened.”

  “And no one took it down? Do you understand the penalty for supporting a rebel?”

  “It—it isn’t support,” he stammered. “I certainly don’t support it.”

  “Then why is it up here?”

  “I don’t know. I just place bets. I don’t patrol the gates.”

  Juba ripped down the scroll, and Marcellus stepped forward tentatively.

  “May I see it?”

  I thought that Juba would refuse, but he shoved the scroll at Marcellus, and we all gathered around. It was written in the same neat handwriting as the previous actum I’d seen, only this time the writer was denouncing the attempted assassination of Octavian, warning that bloodshed would only result in further bloodshed, and that rulers had as much right to a long life as slaves. He reminded his readers that Spartacus had failed, and that no rebellion could ever hope to achieve what votes of conscience by senators could. Then he went on to deride Octavian’s punishment of the plebs, promising riots in the Subura once the people began to starve. And there was more—something about helping slaves across the Mare Superum to their homelands. But Juba took back the scroll.

  “That’s enough. You came here to watch the races. So let’s watch them.” He handed the crumpled actum to Gallia, who made it disappear into a beautifully embroidered bag at her side. I was always fascinated to see her clothing, including the embellished bags that no other slave ever carried. But Gallia was Octavia’s favorite.

  We climbed to the seats reserved for Caesar’s family, and when Juba had settled into conversation with Gallia, Marcellus whispered, “I wonder why this rebel is willing to criticize my uncle, but opposes assassination?”

  “Probably because if your uncle died, it wouldn’t be the patricians who’d suffer most, but the plebs,” I guessed. “The rich will always find something to eat. It’s the slaves and freedmen who would starve.”

  “Do you really think there will be riots?” Julia asked.

  “I should think so,” Marcellus replied, keeping his eye on the betmaker below us. When the man looked in our direction, Marcellus waved him over, taking out a purse full of denarii. “But they won’t be for long. Just as the freedmen are regretting their support of the Red Eagle and feeling hungry, the Ludi Romani will be here to distract them.”

  “So you agree with their punishment?” I exclaimed.

  “Of course not. But that’s what my uncle is thinking.” Marcellus passed the bet-maker his purse and said shrewdly, “The Greens. I hear they have purchased new horses.”

  “That’s right. Twenty new stallions. All from Arabia.”

  Alexander smiled, and I knew at once that he’d been the one to procure this information. “The Greens,” he said as well, and I gasped at the size of his purse. “I’ve been winning,” he explained. “So what are the Ludi Romani?”

  “You haven’t heard about the Ludi?” Julia cried. “They’re only the biggest games on earth.”

  “We had our own games,” I said tersely.

  “Well, the Ludi Romani go on for fifteen days. Chariot races, gladiatorial events, theatrical performances.…” She glanced uneasily at Juba. “Perhaps we won’t be going to those.”

  “And you think your father will want to celebrate after an attempt to assassinate him?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s not a celebration,” Marcellus said. “It’s a tradition. Canceling the Ludi would be like canceling.…” He searched for the right word.

  “The month of June,” Julia said helpfully.

  “Or deciding there will be no more Saturnalia. Besides, it keeps the people happy. All work is stopped on those days, and everyone comes with food and circus padding.”

  Alexander wrinkled his nose. “What is that?”

  Marcellus pointed to the bottom of the Circus, where men were carrying thick mats made of rushes. “Their seats aren’t covered like ours.”

  Trumpets blared, and as the announcer signaled the start of the race, the gates were raised and chariots thundered onto the tracks. Julia and Alexander yelled themselves hoarse with Marcellus, and I took out my book, opening to the sketches Vitruvius had given me of Octavian’s mausoleum. He wanted designs for inside the building, and, in all likelihood, nothing I produced would be used. But I was determined to surprise him. I would sketch such handsome designs that he would find them irresistible. Perhaps there were other architects he employed who were several decades older than I, but none of them had lived in Alexandria and seen what the Ptolemies had accomplished. None of them had studied in the Museion, or dedicated years to sketching the most beautiful marble caryatids and mosaics in the world. When I took out my ink and stylus, I noticed that Juba was watching me.

  “Sketching a new Rome?” he asked.

  “It’s a commission.”

  “Really? So you are being paid?”

  “No. I am doing it to be helpful.”

  Juba smiled. “Such a charitable nature, and not even twelve. Soon you’ll be passing out bread with Octavia.”

  “I noticed you thanking her this morning,” I retorted. “So you did appreciate the gift.”

  He raised his brows. “Of course. It’s the only portrait I have of my father.”

  I clenched my jaw, determined not to be goaded by him any longer, and for the rest of afternoon, I made sure he couldn’t see what I was drawing.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ON THE seventh day without the dole, there were riots in the Subura. Although it came as no surprise to anyone but Octavia, the people began breaking into shops, stealing food from vendors in the streets, and setting fire to taverns that refused to defer charges. As we sat in the triclinium eating oysters and thrushes, listening to sweet tones played by a slave girl on the harp, the Subura tore at itself like a rabid wolf. The hungry masses devoured anything that crossed their path—chickens, dogs, even cats. On the eighth night, when a soldier interrupted our meal to announce that a pleb had given up the bowman from the theater, I caught the triumphant look in Octavian’s eyes.

  “Reinstate the dole tomorrow,” he said. “Remind the people that I am paying for their grain with my own denarii, and tell them I have sold my statues to buy them food.”

  The soldier smiled. “Certainly, Caesar.”

  “And the criminal?” he asked, almost as though it were an afterthought.

  “One of your slaves. A kitchen boy, I believe.”

  Octavian grew very still. “Kitchen boy, or a man?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “And you are sure that it’s him?”

  “He escaped from the Palatine three weeks ago, and the plebs seem very certain. Even if it wasn’t, he’s still a runaway.”

  Agrippa rose angrily. “Well is it him, or isn’t it?”

  “It is,” the soldier said with more confidence. Octavian’s decree that slaves could not purchase weapons hadn’t mattered. There would always be dealers willing to sell anything for the right price.

  “Whip him through the streets,” Octavian said. “And tomorrow, crucify him next to the Forum.”

  Octavia gasped, pressing her silk napkin delicately to her lips, only this time she didn’t protest.

  “But how do they know the plebs aren’t lying, hoping he’ll bring back the dole?” I whispered.

  Marcellus’s usually bright cheeks had grown pale. “It’s possible.”

  “And if they tortured him,” Julia pointed out, “he might confess to anything.”

  Octavian didn’t appear concerned. He reclined on his couch and continued making notes for his next speech in the Senate. But I couldn’t stop thinking of the kitchen boy who’d been condemned to death, and the next day, after our time on the Campus Martius, I persuaded Juba to allow us to go to the Forum.

&n
bsp; “To see a dead man?” Julia complained as we made our way there. “What’s the purpose?”

  “I want to know if it’s really him,” I said.

  “And if it isn’t?”

  “She just wants to know,” Marcellus said. “I’d like to know as well.”

  “There will be no interfering with justice,” Juba warned darkly. He was speaking to all of us, but he looked at me when he said it.

  “We understand,” Marcellus replied. “We just want to go and see.”

  Julia sighed heavily, and we walked the remaining distance to the Forum in silence, trailed by Juba and Gallia. When we arrived, there was no mistaking what was about to happen. Hundreds of Roman soldiers stood outside the Senate, shields at the ready and armed with swords. The red plumes of their helmets drooped in the sun, and I imagined how hot the men must be beneath their armor. But none of them moved. Only their eyes roamed the Forum, searching for possible rebels in the crowd.

  “All of this, for an execution?” Alexander exclaimed.

  “The rebel’s supporters might try to save him,” Marcellus explained. “Or at least give him an easy death.”

  “Do you think that will happen?” Julia asked eagerly, glancing around the Forum.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Juba said curtly.

  No one was allowed near the wooden cross, or the boy who would be bound to it. Juba led us to the steps of the Senate, where guards immediately cleared a space for distinguished witnesses. I felt a tightening in my stomach.

  “Is it him?” Alexander whispered at my side.

  The soldiers had whipped the kitchen boy through the streets, and his bare back was a bloodied mess. But even without shading my eyes from the sun, I could see that the slave had the same height and build as the masked bowman from the theater. “I don’t know. It might be.” I looked at Julia, who had purchased an ofella and was munching contentedly. “How can you bear to watch this and eat?” I demanded.

  “It’s just an execution. Most are done at the Esquiline Gate. This is the only one I’ve seen in the Forum.”