The Egyptian Royals Collection

by Michelle Moran

  “Already the happy reunion,” Juba said, watching me.

  “Juba!” Octavia’s smile was wide. “And Tiberius,” she said delightedly. “But why didn’t anyone warn us of your coming?”

  “We thought it should be a surprise,” Marcellus said, letting go of Julia. “So was it?”

  Octavias eyes shone with tears. “Yes.”

  “We won’t have to go to the ludus today, will we?” Julia pleaded.

  Octavia laughed. “No. Today will be a day of celebration! Faustina,” she called to one of her slaves, “let Magister Verrius know there will be no ludus today. And invite him to a feast tonight.”

  “But what about the trial?” I said with concern.

  Marcellus looked from one face to another. “What trial?”

  Octavia explained what had been happening in the Forum, and how this morning a verdict would be given on Tullia’s fate.

  “I don’t know.” Marcellus looked at Julia. “I was rather hoping to spend some time at home—”

  “And we can send a slave to hear the verdict,” Julia added.

  “But you were the one who suggested going!” I exclaimed. “Aren’t you interested in what happens to her?”

  “Sure, but Marcellus just returned, Selene. He’s tired.”

  He didn’t look tired to me.

  “And probably hungry.”

  “Starving.” He groaned.

  I looked from Julia to Marcellus and wondered how I could ever have believed that Marcellus had the compassion to be the Red Eagle.

  “I’ll go with you,” my brother said swiftly.

  “I’m happy to go as well,” Lucius said.

  “Not by yourselves,” Vitruvius warned.

  “I can take them.”

  Octavia turned to Juba. “But you’ve only just returned,” she protested. “Aren’t you tired?”

  “Perhaps if we hadn’t stopped at every inn along the way,” he said, looking meaningfully at Marcellus, “I would be more road-weary. As it is, I feel quite rested. Besides, the princess seems to have a soft spot for slaves, and I’m interested to see which victim has inflamed her sympathy this time.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, and my brother’s look warned me not to say anything that might cause Juba to withdraw his offer.

  “Then you must be careful,” Octavia cautioned. “The plebs are extremely angry about this.”

  “You aren’t coming?” I asked.

  Octavia looked uncomfortable. “I believe I will spend this day with Marcellus.”

  In the end, only four of us went, and Lucius conversed cheerfully with Juba along the way.

  “So are the Gauls as barbaric as they say?” he asked eagerly.

  “Look around. Half of Rome is filled with them.”

  “But in their native lands, do they really feast on men’s flesh and walk naked through the woods?”

  “Not that I’ve seen,” Juba replied.

  “But their horses are finer than anything in Rome,” my brother said. “That’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Juba said. “They train them better, and the steeds seem to be of better quality. You know, their goddess Epona is a horse.”

  “I notice you don’t make fun of that,” I remarked.

  Juba smiled. “That’s because everyone knows the Gauls are barbarians. The Egyptians, on the other hand, are reputed to be fine thinkers.”

  “And was the weather as terrible as Augustus wrote?” Lucius asked. “Octavia read us letters that talked of snow falling for weeks.”

  “The Gallic mountains are forbidding,” Juba admitted. “Hundreds of soldiers died, and many more would have followed if the rebellion had lasted. Wounds that may be survivable in the summer drain the body differently in winter.”

  “So how did Augustus survive it?” I asked.

  “He left after a month of rain.”

  “He left?” Alexander repeated incredulously. “Where?”

  “The northeast of Iberia at a place called Tarraco. And I suspect that’s where he’ll remain until his generals finish the Cantabrian war.”

  My brother stopped walking. “Then he isn’t fighting?”

  “No,” Juba said simply. “Augustus was not built for warfare.”

  Alexander looked at me, then continued moving, and I could hear his thoughts as clearly as if he were speaking them aloud. Our father, who had never been sick a day in his life, had died so that a weakling could rule an empire he couldn’t even defend personally. Our mother would have clothed herself in deerskins and eaten strips of human flesh before leaving her soldiers hungry and cold in the mountains of Gaul. She would have donned armor herself and fought like a man before turning and fleeing for warmer climes.

  “So this is it,” Juba said as we arrived in the Forum. “The latest trial to stir up the passion of the plebs and Princess Selene.”

  I ignored his taunt and he led us to our regular place behind the platform. Because we were early, the judices had only just begun seating themselves, but a swarm of spectators already filled the courtyard. The lawyers for Aquila and Tullia mounted the rostrum, and the girl at the center of the trial was brought out, with two soldiers for guards. Her face was stained with tears, and she was trembling. I searched for her mother and father in the crowd, and saw them closest to the platform, smiling and encouraging her to be strong.

  I turned to Juba. “Do you think it’s funny now?”

  “You mistake me,” he said coldly. “This has never been funny. Just a sad, short spectacle of human injustice like most other trials this courtyard has witnessed.”

  I stepped back. “Then you hope she will go free?”

  “If what Octavia has told me about the trial is true, then yes. I am sorry if this disappoints you. I know how you cherish the thought that I’m indifferent to human suffering.”

  I looked back at the lawyers, who were wearing long cloaks in case of rain. The two men waited patiently to begin, and when the last of the judices were seated, the lawyer for Tullia addressed them. He made a plea for reason and sanity, asking that the seated men remember their own daughters, sisters, and wives. Then Aquila’s lawyer spoke on behalf of his client, reminding the judices of Aquila’s reputation as the Aventine’s most reputable banker. There were jeers from the crowd as he said this, but no one attempted to rush the platform or throw food. Hundreds of soldiers stood in formation around the Forum, and when the judices rose, there was total silence.

  “Aquila,” the first judex announced. “Aquila,” said the second, and the third said the same.

  “What does it mean?” I whispered.

  “They are voting in favor of the banker,” Juba said, “and we are about to witness what plebian rage looks like.”

  The soldiers around us began to tense as one by one the judices stood and announced for Aquila.

  “Perhaps we should leave,” I said uneasily.

  “Some of them have to find in favor in Tullia!” Alexander exclaimed. “They can’t all be bought.”

  But judex after judex rose and said, “Aquila.” The crowd was becoming volatile, shouting insults and threatening revenge. But as the last judex rose, the courtyard fell silent.

  “Aquila,” the old man said, and suddenly Tullia rushed past the rostrum into her father’s arms. But instead of laying her head upon his chest, she fell to her knees and exposed her neck. It happened so swiftly that even the guards were taken by surprise. Then shrill screams echoed across the Forum as the plebs realized what had happened. The centurion had killed his own daughter in order to save her from slavery and rape.

  Lucius covered his mouth with his hand, and even Juba looked pale. We didn’t wait to see what would happen. I had seen plebian anger at the Circus Maximus and the trial of Gaius Fabius’s slaves, but this was outrage on a different scale. Juba took my arm, and Alexander and Lucius followed swiftly behind us. “Move!” Juba shouted at the people around us. “Move!” By the time we reached the Palatine, a fleet-footed slave had alread
y told Octavia what had happened, and dozens of people were gathered on Augustus’s platform, watching the conflict in the Forum. Something was burning in the courtyard of the Senate, and I presumed it was the rostrum where Tullia’s father had killed her rather than let her be violated. The small flecks of scarlet darting in and out of the Forum had to be soldiers attempting to put out the fire, but small fires had already started up in other places.

  “They’re burning their own livelihoods,” Tiberius said scornfully.

  “They don’t care,” I told him. “They’re sending a message to the Senate.”

  “And what is that?” he demanded. “That the plebs can’t be trusted to watch an open trial? That from now on, trials should be held in secret?”

  “She was alive,” Julia said plaintively. “Just yesterday, she was alive.”

  Agrippa looked murderous, and I wondered if he was thinking of his daughter, Vipsania. “I should have gone today.”

  “It wouldn’t have changed anything,” Vitruvius assured him. “The judices were bought.”

  Octavia remained silent, watching the small fires burn across the Forum. One by one they were being put out, but the sound of the raging mobs was carried on the wind.

  “Do you think her father will be charged with murder?” I asked no one in particular.

  “She was the property of Aquila,” Juba replied. “His slave. If he wishes to ask for money in reparation, he may.”

  “Someone should kill him in his sleep,” Julia hissed. “He should be slaughtered the way Tullia’s father slaughtered her.”

  The young slave girl Faustina approached Octavia with hesitant steps. “Domina, the cook says the feast is ready.”

  “It’s too soon,” Octavia snapped, and the girl flinched. I had never heard Octavia raise her voice to a slave.

  “We can watch the fires burn or go inside,” Vitruvius said. “Either way, the girl is gone.”

  It wasn’t a merry homecoming. What was supposed to be a festive celebration in honor of Marcellus’s return with Tiberius and Juba became a subdued meal. Magister Verrius and Gallia joined us in the triclinium, and there was a purposeful silence about what was happening below the Palatine. But after a little music and several courses of wine, Marcellus described for us his feats in battle, and Tiberius even honored us with a poem composed after a bloody clash. I heard my brother whisper to Lucius that he could have done much better, and when Marcellus saw the intimacy between them, he looked at me. I smiled helplessly, and when he nodded, I wondered how long he had known about Alexander.

  “So tell me about Rome,” Marcellus said to me.

  There was not much to tell. Only that the Pantheon was nearly done, and that building had begun on his theater a month ago.

  “Shall we see it tomorrow?” Marcellus asked eagerly.

  “You mean, after the ludus?” Octavia reminded.

  If Magister Verrius hadn’t been there, I’m sure that Marcellus would have rolled his eyes. Instead he smiled politely. “Of course. So tell me,” he added excitedly to Vitruvius, “what does it look like?”

  Vitruvius smiled. “Don’t ask me. Ask Selene. She is your architect.”

  “Really?”

  “Didn’t you say the design should be left up to her?” Vitruvius asked.

  Marcellus grinned. “So?”

  “It looks like the Circus Maximus,” I said. He slapped his knee, and I’m sure I felt my heart expanding. “There’s three stories of arches, and columns in the Corinthian style.”

  “Is it big enough to hold races?”

  “Marcellus!” Octavia reprimanded.

  But everyone laughed, and when the evening was finished, Juba caught me watching Marcellus and Julia. He was telling her goodbye, promising that he would see her in the morning and that there wouldn’t be any more wars for a very long time.

  “Their marriage was arranged years ago,” Juba said. “There’s no use staring.”

  “I wasn’t staring,” I said angrily.

  “Then what were you doing?”

  “Observing.” Before I could think of something far more clever to say, he was gone.

  His comment rankled me the entire night. I thought about it when I should have been asleep, and even turned it over in my mind the next morning while I should have been concentrating on what Vitruvius was teaching me. But when a commotion erupted in the atrium, I forgot about Juba entirely. I looked up at Vitruvius, and he rose from his chair.

  “Is someone shouting?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know.”

  We both went to see.

  “On every basilica,” Faustina was saying, “an actum as long as your stola. And news that Aquila has been murdered!”

  “In his sleep?” I cried, thinking of Julia’s request.

  “No.” She turned to me. “On the Aventine. Left for dead like a pig and not a single person willing to come forward as a witness.”

  “Is it any wonder?” Octavia whispered.

  My brother and Lucius hurried into the atrium. “What is it?” Lucius looked to his father.

  “Plebian justice,” Vitruvius replied.

  There were seven more acta between the time of Tullia’s trial and our progress to Capri in July. Agrippa’s soldiers stood guard at every temple and basilica in Rome, so the rebel began posting on the windows of merchants’ shops, making those shops instantly popular with the plebs. And when the merchants were threatened with imprisonment, he posted his next actum on the heavy cedar doors of Augustus’s villa. The sheet was taken down before any of us could read it, but enough slaves had seen it on Augustus’s door to send the story spreading like fire throughout the city.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I COULD see the relief on Octavia’s face when summer finally came, and she could escape the plebian hostility for Capri. She’d said nothing to me about her charity in the Subura, but Vitruvius admitted that at some homes, people had begun to turn away her help, preferring to beg or steal for their food than receive it from a patrician.

  As our ship sailed from Naples to the little island where Augustus’s Sea Palace rose from the rocks, Alexander turned to me. “I wonder if the Red Eagle is following us.”

  I looked from the rails to Octavia and Vitruvius, who were sitting on the deck, shaded from the sun by a thin linen canopy. “Every home on Capri will be searched if he dares to post anything there again,” I told him.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if they have soldiers in disguise across the island, waiting for him to make a mistake.”

  “It didn’t work in Rome.”

  “Rome isn’t an island,” my brother said.

  But after a week of sun-bleached days spent lounging in the Sea Palace, there was no sign of the rebel, and the men of the Praetorian Guard began to relax at their posts. They tossed dice, ate fish, and were willing to place bets on nearly anything, from the fastest-moving boats passing on the sea to the height of a palm tree.

  Without Augustus or Livia to watch us, there was almost nothing we couldn’t do. Even Tiberius and Drusus enjoyed themselves a little, joining us on Marcellus’s daily boat trips into the Blue Grotto, where Roman patricians had turned the sea cave into their own bathing pool. The walls were painted with images of Neptune rising from the waves, and small statues of the bearded sea god rested in niches carved into the rock. Toward the end of the summer, when Claudia became adventurous enough to come along, both Agrippa and Juba paddled with us to the cave.

  “What do you think makes the water so blue?” Claudia asked. It was as if something was lighting the sea from underneath, turning the water the brilliant shade of cornflowers.

  “It’s the opening down there,” Juba said from the boat, pointing to a gap in the rock that was completely submerged. “That’s where the sunlight enters and lights the water from below.”

  “First in!” Marcellus shouted, tearing off his tunic and diving into the water in his loincloth. Claudia immediately averted her gaze, but Tiberius and Drusus stripped o
ff their tunics and dove overboard, too.

  “Are you coming?” Drusus called to Vipsania.

  She stood at the edge of the boat. “It looks a little cold.”

  “Nonsense!” Lucius exclaimed. “Let’s go!” He pushed Julia and Vipsania from the boat before they had time to take off their clothes, and Alexander followed.

  “Are you going in?” I asked Claudia, stowing my sandals in the prow of the little boat where they wouldn’t get wet.

  “In my breastband and loincloth?”

  “Why not?” I took off my tunic. “We come here every day.”

  She looked uneasily at Agrippa and Juba, who were already swimming.

  “Go,” I persisted. “Your husband doesn’t mind. Look at Vipsania. Do you think he would let his daughter do something dishonorable?”

  Claudia hesitated, then took off her tunic and slowly, timidly dipped her foot into the water.

  “What are you waiting for?” Marcellus cried, pulling her in.

  “Marcellus!” she shrieked, but once she was completely wet, she giggled. “It’s warm in here. Like bathwater.”

  “You see?” I told her. “It’s not so bad.” I slipped over the side of the boat and swam up to Marcellus. Immediately, Julia was at my side.

  “Can you imagine being here at high tide?” Claudia asked worriedly. “The water would rise and we’d all be trapped.”

  “It’s not high tide for another few hours,” Marcellus said.

  “Besides,” Julia added, “there’s a secret path over there to the mountain.” She indicated the end of the cave, where a limestone platform led to a series of steps.

  “Have you ever used it?”

  Julia shook her head.

  “Then how can you be sure it works?”

  “Because we saw a goat come through it once!”

  Claudia looked to her brother to confirm the story.

  “It’s true,” Marcellus said. “Ask Agrippa if you don’t believe me.”

  She swam away to her husband, and Julia said critically, “She’s so nervous.”

  “Like all my sisters,” Marcellus said. “Why do you think Antonia and Tonia aren’t here?”