When we returned to the triclinium in time for the evening’s meal, I saw that Alexander had put on a new tunic, while I was still in my traveling clothes.
“So what did you do all day?” he asked.
“Looked at architecture with Vitruvius and Tiberius.”
Julia popped open an oyster. “That’s it?”
“There’s a great deal more to the palace than you know,” Tiberius retorted.
Marcellus raised his brows. “Such as?”
“The slaves’ chambers,” I said. “And have you seen the baths that they use?”
Julia laughed. “Who would want to do that?”
“You might,” I said sternly. “They are some of the most beautifully frescoed pools I’ve ever seen. And their rosewater is better than what you use in Rome.”
Julia wrinkled her nose. “Really? Why are the slaves living so well?”
“Because we only come here once a year,” Marcellus guessed. “The rest of the time they’re doing as they please. Your father doesn’t call this the Land of Do-Nothings without a reason.” He smiled at me. “I’d like to see their baths.”
“I’m sure Vitruvius will take you.”
“Or you can.”
Everyone at the table paused. My brother darted a look of warning at me. Then Julia said lightly, “You can take all of us. Tomorrow afternoon.”
Marcellus shook his head. “I heard your father say we’ll be visiting Pollio.”
Julia lowered the oyster in her hand. “What?”
“Pollio is always lending money to the treasury,” he explained. “And you know he comes to the sea every year—”
“So my father’s planning on spending the day with a murderer for a handful of denarii?” Julia cried.
Marcellus put his finger to his lips, but Octavian was busy talking about antiquities with Juba. “At least you’ll get to see Horatia,” he offered.
“And then what?” she hissed. “Ask if she’s enjoying the sea?” She pushed away her plate of food and stood. “I’m not in the mood for this anymore.”
She left the triclinium, and Marcellus was caught between going after her and remaining with us.
“Oh, just let her be,” Alexander suggested. “My sister can talk to her.”
“Why me?” I exclaimed.
“Because you’re a girl and understand these moods.” Since I had experienced my moon blood several months before, Alexander had suffered a few of my irrational tantrums.
“Yes,” Marcellus pleaded. “Better you than us.”
“And you wouldn’t rather go?” I asked temptingly.
Marcellus shook his head. “She’s vile when she’s angry.”
I suppressed a smile and stood. So long as we weren’t sitting at Octavian’s table, no one cared when we left the triclinium. I found Julia on the balcony of her chamber, illuminated by torchlight and watching the waves. “Marcellus?” she asked eagerly, and her shoulders sagged a little when she saw that it was me. “Selene.” Her pale tunic fluttered in the breeze, and I realized that her cheeks were wet.
“I’m sure your father isn’t doing this to hurt you,” I said.
“No.” She spun around. “Livia is. You think my father can’t borrow gold from a thousand other men? Why Pollio?” she demanded. “Why tomorrow, just as we’re free from the ludus and beginning to enjoy ourselves?” She stalked from the balcony, and I followed her into her chamber. Her eyes were brimming with tears. “I won’t go.”
“Don’t give Livia the satisfaction,” I told her. “She wants to see you alone and upset while all the rest of us are out together. And if you don’t go tomorrow, she’ll know she’s found a way of excluding you. She’ll only do it again.”
Julia sat on her couch. “You saw what she did to Gallia,” she said. “Without lifting a finger. If I go, she’ll only find another way to hurt me.”
“Then tell your father!” I seated myself on one of her chairs.
“Do you think he would listen?” She laughed scornfully. “I’m like one of his Setinum wines being aged to perfection. And when the time is right, he’ll sell me off to Marcellus.”
“But I thought you wanted to marry him?”
“Of course I do. But my father doesn’t care about that. I could loathe Marcellus, and we would still be married.” Her voice grew very still and frail. “You were lucky to have a mother,” she said. “Even if Gaia survived her first night at the Columna, she’ll never know her real mother. Just like me.”
“But your mother is alive—”
Her eyes flashed. “And banished from the Palatine! No one invites her to dinner for fear of displeasing my father. She has no friends, no husband. She doesn’t even have me. Do you know where she is right now?”
I shook my head.
“In Rome, suffering with the plebs. She doesn’t have the denarii to purchase a summer villa, and do you think my father cares? If I could, I would leave this island behind and sweat through the heat of Rome to be with her. Instead, I get to suffer here.”
When she bent her head and I realized she was crying, I moved from my chair and put my arm around her shoulders. There was nothing to say, no way of changing Rome or her father. I simply listened to her cry, and was thankful I had come instead of Marcellus.
Before we left for Pollio’s villa, an augur was summoned to determine whether the day would be auspicious for dining with a friend. We stood in the colonnaded garden beneath the increasing heat of the sun, waiting for a flock of birds to pass overhead so that the augur could divine from their pattern of flight whether this would be a dies fastus or a dies nefastus.
Tiberius sighed heavily, and Marcellus looked immensely bored with the whole procedure.
“Where are the damn birds?” Octavian swore.
The augur shifted nervously on his feet. “I am afraid the gods do not work on mortal schedules, Caesar.”
Livia pointed wildly to the north. “Blackbirds!” she exclaimed, and everyone turned to face the augur.
Julia closed her eyes, and I could almost hear her thoughts. Please proclaim it a dies nefastus.
The augur spread his arms. “There will be good fortune today!” he announced. “This is a fastus.”
Tiberius stood swiftly. “Good. Let’s go.”
I saw Juba smile wryly at him while Octavian gave his thanks to the augur. A dozen curtained litters were waiting for us outside the villa, and I shared mine with Julia.
“I was hoping he’d declare it a dies nefastus,” I admitted as the litter began to move.
“I knew he wouldn’t. All the augurs look at my father’s face before making a proclamation. If he doesn’t look as if he wants to go, then it’s a dies nefastus.”
“So your father doesn’t really believe in it?”
Julia’s eyes went wide. “Of course he does.”
“But how—?”
“He believes what he wants to. Just like you with your Isis.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Well, have you ever seen her?” Julia challenged. “Has she ever come to you in a moment of need?”
“Isis works her miracles unseen.”
Julia cocked her head and gave me a disbelieving look. “You believe what you want to.”
I refused to dignify her insult with a response. Instead, I pushed open the curtains and looked out at the blue expanse in front of us. Villas were strung along the rim of the sea like pearls, bright white and gleaming in the sun.
“You see that villa over there?” Julia asked. “That’s Pollio’s.”
I had intended to be angry with her, but instead I inhaled. “The one as large as a city?”
“Yes. And wait until we go inside,” she said resentfully. “It’s bigger than anything you’ve ever seen. Even the palace at Alexandria,” she promised.
Julia wasn’t lying. Although his villa in Rome had been sprawling, Pollio’s villa on Capri had been built to house more than three thousand people, most of them slaves. The walk was mor
e than a mile from his handsomely frescoed portico to the gilded triclinium, where the stars in the ceiling were made from silver and the sun on the wall from beaten gold. And as Pollio escorted us through chamber after chamber, he pointed out his newest purchases.
“That is an authentic Myron,” he said, naming one of the most famous Greek sculptors in the world. “And that is my eel pool.”
“Eels?” Octavia made a noise in her throat. “What for?”
“Entertainment! Would you like to see them?” He didn’t wait for her answer before leading us to the far corner of the atrium to a vast pool large enough to fit a small boat. But no one would have attempted to sail on that lake. Beneath the murky waters, sharp-toothed fish writhed between the rocks. What sort of man kept eels for entertainment?
I didn’t step to the ledge, and I noticed that even Marcellus kept his distance. “Where do they come from?” he asked.
Pollio made a grand gesture with his arm. “All across Capri. I have my slaves find them for me.”
“That must be very dangerous,” Juba remarked.
Pollio smiled. “It is. Shall we see them feed?”
When no one objected, he ordered a slave-boy to bring him a handful of rotten meat from the kitchens. When the boy returned, he was careful not to step too close to the pool.
“Your meat, Domine.”
“Go ahead,” he ordered the child, “throw it.”
The boy trembled. “Me, Domine?”
“Yes! This is Caesar who’s waiting!”
The slave-boy moved timidly toward the ledge, then quickly tossed his handful of meat into the pool. Pollio watched proudly as the eels swarmed around the offering, snapping their jaws and attacking one another in order to get to the food. Their teeth gleamed like small razors in the lamplight, and Octavia suggested faintly, “Shall we continue?”
Pollio looked up. “Oh, yes. But did you see how they attack?” he asked Octavian eagerly. “They’re absolutely vicious creatures!”
We walked past elaborate partitions made from ivory and a wooden chair whose back was carved in the shape of an eagle. “Every piece in this villa has a story,” Pollio boasted. “That chair once belonged to a Gallic chieftain.”
“Vercingetorix?” I asked.
Pollio looked surprised, as if a bird had opened its beak to speak to him. “That’s right. And over there is my newest addition,” he said. “A second library for my collection.”
“What about a second triclinium?” Livia said shortly. “One that doesn’t require a litter to get there.”
Pollio laughed loudly at what was obviously meant to be a criticism. “I already have two triclinia. Can you imagine the first villa to have three? Of course, if Caesar were to suggest it, I would be more than happy—”
“My wife was joking,” Octavian snapped.
“Of course.” Pollio laughed nervously. “Who could afford three rooms for dining?”
We came to the summer triclinium, where Horatia was waiting patiently for her guests in an exquisite tunic of apricot and gold. Immediately, her eyes met Julia’s, and I could see that she wanted to speak privately with her, but she did her duty and politely escorted the guests to their couches. The tables overlooked the water, and the warm wind smelled of sea salt and wine.
“Just like Alexandria.” My brother sighed, patting down his hair.
“Did you spend your entire lives near the sea?” Marcellus asked. Julia and Tiberius seated themselves on opposite sides of him, while across the room, Pollio and Horatia would be eating with Octavian.
“Every day. Playing in the water, collecting seashells by the rocks.…”
“I’d like to go to Egypt,” Julia said wistfully, and I wondered how many times a day she wished she were somewhere else.
“Someday,” Marcellus whispered, “if I become Caesar, we’ll return Alexander and Selene to their thrones, and in return they’ll show us Alexandria.”
Julia looked at her father. Now that winter was over, the color had returned to his cheeks, and he appeared strong. “That could be many years,” she said fearfully.
“Already wishing death on Caesar? That’s how treachery begins,” Tiberius warned.
“No one said anything about death,” Marcellus said.
But Tiberius grinned. “I know what she meant.”
“You don’t know anything,” Julia retorted angrily. “You smile and listen like a sickly cat hoping for a scrap of meat to run to my father with. You think I don’t know that you tell him everything we say?”
He snorted. “As if I cared enough to do that. Try Juba. He’s the spy.”
But Julia sat forward. “You hope that if you tell my father everything, he’ll trust you enough to send you to war alongside Agrippa. Maybe even make you a general, and you’ll never have to come back here.” She snorted. “But that’s never going to happen. My father will keep you here, dancing like his puppet until he’s gone. The heir.” She looked from Marcellus to Tiberius. “And the spare.”
There was a crash of crystal on the mosaic floor, and everyone turned.
“You stupid son of an ass!” Pollio shouted. He leapt from his chair, thundering toward the old man who cowered on the floor.
“Please, Domine, I didn’t mean—”
Pollio lashed out with his foot, kicking the slave squarely in the jaw. The old man fell back against the shattered glass, and Horatia rushed from her couch.
“Please, Pollio—”
“This is the finest crystal we own!” he shouted.
Julia and Tiberius exchanged glances; their own bickering was silenced.
“This asinus has broken one of my largest vessels. Octavia wanted to know why I have eels?” He turned to the guards at the door of the triclinium. “Take him to the pool!”
The old man clasped his hands before his bloodied face. “Please, Domine.” His voice became hysterical. “Please! Kill me here, but not the eels.”
I looked from Agrippa to Juba, desperate for one of them to do something. Then Octavian stood. He held his crystal goblet in front of him, dropping it on the floor and watching it shatter into a thousand pieces. No one spoke. No one even dared to breathe. Octavian proceeded to smash every piece of crystal on his table. The pieces scattered across the floor, and some of the children covered their ears at the terrible sound. At last, when there was nothing more to destroy, Octavian asked, “Will you be feeding me to the eels as well?”
“Of course not, Caesar,” Pollio said.
The old man had tears in his eyes.
“How many men have you killed this way?”
“Seven,” the old man whispered from the floor.
“And all of them deserved it!” Pollio challenged, his chins wagging with indignation.
“And this slave. Does he deserve it?” Octavian asked.
Pollio considered his answer before speaking. “Not with an example such as Caesar before him,” he said wisely. He was not as great a fool as he looked.
“You are generous, Domine,” the old man said. He trembled, and the sight was pitiful. Octavia turned away.
“Yes, Dominus Pollio is very generous,” Octavian said. “So generous, he will be freeing you tonight.”
Horatia gasped. But for the first time, Pollio had the sense to bow his head humbly and accept Octavian’s pronouncement.
The next morning, on every temple door in Capri, the Red Eagle posted his first actum in praise of Caesar.
It became the subject of every conversation for the next two weeks. Clearly the Red Eagle had come out of hiding now that enough time had passed since the kitchen boy’s crucifixion. But where was he residing on Capri, and how had he known what had happened in Pollio’s villa?
“Perhaps it’s one of Pollio’s clan,” Marcellus speculated, dangling his feet in the swimming pool. The four of us were drying off in the sun. Since we were no longer in Rome, Julia and I were allowed to swim, but only inside the villa where no one could see us in our breastbands and loincloths.
/> “Or it could be anyone who heard the news from Pollio’s villa,” my brother said. In the days after Pollio’s slave had been freed, people as far away as Pompeii came to know of what had happened. We watched as Vipsania splashed at the other end of the pool, completely naked. Both Julia and I, though, now had something to cover. I noticed Marcellus was watching us with new interest—Julia in particular, whose wet band of cloth pressed against her breasts. I had the unkind urge to get up and block his view.
“But if it’s someone who has visited Pollio,” Julia reasoned, “the person must be wealthy. Pollio doesn’t admit any other kind.”
“What about a slave in his house?” I asked. “Or one from this house who’s been there?”
But my brother frowned. “It wouldn’t be like a slave to compliment Octavian.”
The speculation continued throughout the summer, and everyone was suspect, even Juba and Agrippa. But there were no more acta on Capri, and the Praetorian guard stationed at every temple door idled their nights away rolling dice and watching owls hunt for prey. By the end of August, Octavian announced a reward of five thousand denarii to anyone with useful information on the Red Eagle.
“Who do you think it might be?” I asked Vitruvius. We sat in the library with the final plans for the Temple of Apollo. A grand staircase swept from Octavian’s home to the temple, where a vast library already housed his favorite literature. In a few days, when we returned to the oppressive heat of Rome, the last touches would be added, and the temple would be dedicated.
“If I knew,” Vitruvius said, “I would be five thousand denarii richer. Now find me the measurements for the landing.”
“Is there going to be a mosaic?” I asked eagerly.
Vitruvius smiled. “We will include the one you sketched.”
I gave a little cry of joy. After nearly a year of working with Vitruvius, this was the first design of mine he was going to use. I had sketched mosaics for Octavian’s mausoleum, and column designs for Agrippa’s Pantheon, but none of them had been included.
“Don’t grow too excited,” Vitruvius warned. “We have to finish by October. And you’re going to oversee the laying of the tiles.”
I didn’t care how much work it meant, or how many hours before the ludus I would have to rise to oversee the mosaicists’ work. When I told my brother, he stopped packing his trunk to look up at me. “And you want to do this?”
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