The Egyptian Royals Collection

by Michelle Moran

  I walked to the stage and ran my hand along its edge. The wood had been smoothed to perfection, and when I was sure that there were no splinters, I seated myself so that I looked out on the cavea. Years of hard labor would be required to complete the rest of the theater. Builders would grow from boys to men here, as I had grown from a girl to a woman in the time since it had started. I thought of my excitement when Marcellus first asked Augustus whether I could help in its creation. I’d believed it was Marcellus’s way of showing special favor to me, and it had been, only not the kind I’d imagined. He didn’t really care about this theater, and tomorrow he would take Julia as his bride. She would press her soft cheek against his chest as he carried her into their villa, and once he untied her girdle their new life would begin. I could feel the sting of tears beginning in my eyes. Then a figure appeared at the back of the theater, and I stood swiftly.

  “What are you doing here?” I exclaimed.

  Juba smiled as he advanced. “I saw the guards and thought there might be trouble inside. I didn’t realize you had come here to cry out your sorrows. But I suppose that every tragedy deserves a stage.”

  “I’m not crying,” I said sternly.

  Juba raised his brows. “My mistake.”

  “I came here to make some final plans. This area,” I said unconvincingly “still needs a mosaic.” I stepped down and strode purposefully past him. And then it occurred to me. “I know why you’re here,” I gasped. “Augustus wants you to spy on me!”

  Juba laughed at my foolishness. “Do you really imagine that I have so little to do with my time?”

  “Then why aren’t you packing? Leaving for Mauretania on the next ship?”

  Immediately, I regretted my words. He stepped back and said quietly, “Perhaps I still have business in Rome, like making sure my slaves have a place to go when I’m gone.” He moved to join the guards, and the three of them talked about the war in Cantabria, completely ignoring me. When I finally asked to be taken back to the Palatine, the four of us walked the short distance in silence.

  It was a wedding that even the wealthiest merchants would be talking about for many years. Thousands of people filled the villa from the triclinium to the gardens, where charcoal braziers kept away the winter’s chill and lanterns lit the rose-trimmed paths. Between every column, swaths of the richest blue and gold silks fluttered in the breeze, and handsomely dressed slaves rushed between the senators offering them cups of the best Chian wine. When Marcellus slid a gold and emerald ring onto Julia’s finger, the thundering shouts of “Thalassa!” on the hilltop were probably heard all the way down by the Circus Maximus, and the feast that followed lasted into the third watch.

  “It will be us next,” my brother said ominously as we rested in the triclinium. His hair had taken on a burnished sheen in the soft light of the oil lamps, and I saw Lucius staring at him from across the room.

  “Perhaps Augustus will never return,” I said.

  But my brother wasn’t so hopeful. “Then Livia will take care to arrange it from Iberia. She sends Octavia letters every week. And you know what happens in seven days.”

  We would be turning fifteen. Alexander would prepare for his coming-of-age ceremony at the festival of Liberalia, and more men would be inquiring about my availability for marriage, since this was the age by which even the most restrictive fathers realized they would have to let their daughters go. I twisted my napkin nervously in my hands.

  We both looked at Julia and Marcellus, laughing and happy in their newly wedded bliss. He had taken her up in his arms, and a long procession was forming to escort them into their new villa. As they passed our table, Julia’s gaze met mine and her smile faltered. I knew she was thinking about her mother. I stood up and pressed her hand. “Someday, when you are empress …” I whispered. Her face brightened, and as Marcellus carried her away, I made a silent prayer to both Isis and Serapis that Julia would always be this happy. Time and again she had been kind to me, and I had repaid that kindness with jealousy. She had been denied the love and affection of her mother; now, at least, she would have it from a husband.

  “Do you want to go with them?” I asked Alexander.

  “No. It will only be depressing,” he said.

  Secretly, I was thankful. Although I was curious to see what her villa was like, I had no desire to watch Marcellus untie Julia’s girdle, then lay her down on his bridal couch while men sang lewd songs and made grunting noises. “I’m going to go to sleep, then,” I told him.

  “Don’t wait up for me.”

  “But it’s almost morning!”

  My brother smiled. “And there’s still a few amphorae of the Chian left.”

  When I awoke that afternoon and looked across the chamber, I saw that Alexander’s couch hadn’t been slept on.

  It was three days before we saw Marcellus and Julia again. They remained in their villa enjoying each other and their sudden freedom, and Marcellus didn’t even attend school with the rhetor, which sent his mother into a rare fit of rage. She burst into the library while Vitruvius was showing me the formulas he had used to build the dome on the Pantheon.

  “Three days!” she cried. “He hasn’t studied with the rhetor in three days!” We both looked up, and Octavia rubbed her temple. “If this is a sign of things to come—”

  “He’s a newlywed,” Vitruvius pointed out calmly. “I’m sure it’s not a sign of anything but love.”

  Octavia saw my face and mistook my pain for disapproval.

  “You see?” she exclaimed. “Selene understands. That’s why she comes here with you every day when she could be shopping with Julia or studying Plato. I will warn him this evening.”

  “At his first feast?” Vitruvius asked. “He’ll be playing the host.”

  “He can play at whatever he’d like so long as he studies! Even from Iberia,” Octavia warned, “Livia keeps her eye on Rome. You think I don’t know what her slaves are writing? And if Augustus should discover what Marcellus has been doing—lying in bed, watching the races from his balcony—don’t think there aren’t plenty of other choices for heir.”

  Vitruvius gave a hollow laugh. “Like who? Tiberius would rather be castrated.”

  “And would Livia care? She would put him through the trials of Hercules if she thought it would bring him closer to power. When I’m finished speaking with Marcellus,” she demanded, “you must speak to him as well.” Only after Vitruvius nodded gravely did she look down at the scroll we were working on. “Is that the Pantheon?” she asked.

  “Yes. Selene and I are about to oversee the installation of the gods, and by the time your brother returns, it will be finished.”

  “Then there’s been news?” I asked swiftly. I looked at Vitruvius and Octavia, but neither of them seemed inclined to answer.

  “Only half of Cantabria has been subdued,” Octavia said. “The war may take another six months, even though he promised to be here for the unveiling.”

  “I can ask Agrippa whether he wishes to postpone it,” Vitruvius said uncertainly.

  But Octavia shook her head. “No. It wouldn’t be right for such a great building to stand empty.”

  “Come with us,” Vitruvius said imploringly. “You haven’t seen the construction in more than a year, and you can write to your brother about what’s been completed.”

  “He’ll be jealous.” She smiled sadly. “Agrippa tells me it’s unlike anything that’s ever been built.”

  Vitruvius offered her his arm. “You’ll have to judge that for yourself.”

  Octavia invited Gallia to come with us, and when we arrived, their eyes were drawn upward to the pediment, where sculptors had inscribed: MARCUS AGRIPPA, SON OF LUCIUS, CONSUL FOR THE THIRD TIME, MADE THIS BUILDING. There was nothing unusual about the outside of the building. It was a colonnaded porch of simple concrete and brick. But as we passed through the great bronze doors into the Pantheon, I heard Gallia whisper something in her mother tongue.

  Nothing in the world had
ever equaled it in beauty or grandeur, not even in Alexandria. From the rich marble flooring to the internal colonnades, light and color worked together to create something that had never been done before. The dome was decorated with octagonal and hexagonal shapes, making it appear like a honeycomb to anyone who was standing beneath it. In the center was a large, perfectly round opening, an oculus, which let in the only light.

  Gallia’s gaze traveled from niche to niche, where workers were using oiled polishing cloths to prepare them for the reception of the marble statues. When she repeated her amazed sentiments in Gaulish, Juba stepped from the shadows and replied, “It’s impressive, isn’t it?”

  I looked at Vitruvius in surprise. He explained, “He has come to inspect the statues for flaws and authenticity. They only arrived this morning.”

  Juba and Gallia spoke for a moment in her language, then he turned and greeted Octavia and Vitruvius. But when it came to me, his voice was not so merry. “I don’t believe there are any mosaics that need finishing.”

  “I am here to make measurements for the statues,” I retorted.

  He turned to Vitruvius. “What?” he asked with mock indignation. “You didn’t think I would consider that before buying them?”

  Vitruvius looked genuinely apologetic, but Juba slapped his back good-naturedly.

  “Of course.” Juba laughed. “There is no point in hauling a marble statue across the chamber if it’s only going to be returned.” He took Gallia and Octavia on a short tour of the building, and while they were busy I helped Vitruvius take the measurements. I hoped desperately that one of the statues would be too tall or too wide for its niche, but, frustratingly, Juba was right. They all fit.

  “Well?” Juba stood over me when we were finished.

  “They’re fine,” I said shortly, rising and dusting my hands on my tunic.

  “A perfect job,” Vitruvius complimented. “And very handsome sculptures, Juba. Are they all Roman?”

  “Only the Venus is Greek. For some reason, I was drawn to her face.”

  I looked across the Pantheon to the statue of Venus. Perhaps it was my own vanity that made me think I recognized her. But the nose and possibly the light, painted eyes were similar to mine. Then Gallia dropped her voice and whispered, “She reminds me of Caesar’s mistress.”

  “Terentilla.” Juba nodded. “Yes. Perhaps you’re right.”

  That evening, I dressed more carefully than usual for Marcellus’s first feast. I put on my favorite tunic of blue silk and a belt of silver cloth to match my sandals. Then Gallia arranged my hair in a handsome bun on the top of my head, using long silver pins to hold it in place. The result in the mirror was extremely pleasing, and even Gallia was impressed. She sprayed me with a blend of violet and jasmine.

  “You have turned into a real beauty,” she said. “Hera would be jealous if she had to compete with you.”

  I laughed. “How do you know that story? It’s a Greek tale.”

  “I read. And sometimes, Magister Verrius tells those tales to me.”

  “Does he miss us?” I asked as we walked to the portico.

  “What do you think? He has Drusus and Vipsania now for students. They do not study much.”

  Poor Magister Verrius, I thought. He probably imagined that Julia and Marcellus were the laziest students he’d ever have to teach.

  My brother and Lucius were already on the portico, gambling with dice. “Don’t you ever stop?” I teased.

  My brother looked up, and a smile touched his lips. “Nice.” He rose to his feet. “Exceptionally nice,” though he gave me a warning look.

  As we walked across the Palatine, I clenched and unclenched my hands. “So what do you think their villa will be like?” I asked.

  Alexander smirked. “Without any slaves? A mess.”

  “Octavia will have lent them some,” I said. “And I’m sure Julia took cooks from her father’s house.”

  “We’ll see,” he said eagerly as we came to their doorstep. A young slave I had seen in Octavia’s villa answered.

  “Salvete,” the girl said in greeting. The glow of the setting sun burnished the gold trim on her tunic, and I was certain it was a touch that Julia had added. She wanted even her servants to wear gold. “Please.” She stepped aside. “Come in.”

  Our small party entered the vestibulum, and Claudia made noises of appreciation. The floor was made from white Carrara marble, and the elegant murals and stucco decorations had been polished to a shine. Although many people had been here on the night of the wedding, few had taken the time to study the architecture, and as the young girl led us through the atrium, I could see Vitruvius appraising every niche and alcove. The judgment he passed must have been favorable, since he looked at Octavia and smiled.

  When we reached the triclinium, Marcellus and Julia rose from their couch, and Alexander whispered, “Look at the tables.” They were made from cedar wood and inlaid with both jasper and ivory.

  “Welcome, Mother,” Marcellus said jubilantly. “So?” he asked eagerly. “How do you like it?”

  “Beautiful,” she admitted. “All the marble and light. Especially in the atrium.”

  “Julia’s going to buy the rest of her furniture tomorrow. We still need a lararium and couches for the guest rooms. Please, sit wherever you’d like.”

  I had been worried about what the seating arrangements would be, but they were the same as for every other evening on the Palatine. Octavia sat with her daughter and son-in-law, and Vitruvius and Juba joined them. Drusus and Vipsania ate with Antonia and Tonia at their own small table, while the rest of us sat with Julia and Marcellus.

  “Your own villa,” I said enviously. “So what is it like?”

  “Wonderful,” Julia gushed. “No one to tell you what to do, or when to wake up, or where to go.”

  “And the pool overlooks the Circus,” Marcellus added. “It’s too cold for it now, even though it’s heated, but in the spring, you’re all welcome to come.”

  “It must be quiet in Augustus’s villa without me,” Julia said.

  Tiberius raised his brows. “Yes. There’s no one to pick on now but the slaves.”

  She laughed, and I thought, Already, marriage has changed her. She would never have let him have the last word before.

  “And have you seen the upstairs?” Julia asked me.

  “No, not yet.”

  “There’s an entire room just for bathing, and a chamber that looks out over the Forum. Come!” She stood. “Let me show you around.”

  “But what about your guests?”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “They won’t miss me during the gustatio. Let them have a few drinks and some oysters.”

  She took me up the stairs and pointed out the small details that she knew I would like: the onyx floor with its sleek fur rugs, the insets of blue and yellow marble on the ceilings. The tapestries, draperies, and awnings all looked new, and I asked her, “Who owned this villa before?”

  “Some old man who died without children. My father bought it for me six months ago and had all of the tasteless furniture removed. You should have seen what was here. Only now, there are no tables and almost nothing to sleep on.”

  I saw what she meant. In the bridal chamber, although the windows were beautiful and the floor had been polished, there was only a single couch.

  Julia saw my look and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s worse than my father’s villa, isn’t it? Even the Vestals live better than this!”

  I was forced to agree with her.

  “Come with me tomorrow,” she begged. “We’ll go shopping in the Forum.”

  “I have to work with Vitruvius.”

  “What? Every day? No one has a better eye for design than you.”

  I hesitated.

  “Please. He’ll understand. Just tell him your next project is going to be my villa!”

  The next morning, we set out for the Forum. Alexander came with us, shadowed by two Praetorians, and Julia remarked, “I�
��m surprised you’re not with Lucius. I can’t remember the last time I saw the two of you apart.”

  My brother wrapped himself tighter in his cloak. Although no rain had fallen yet, the wind was bitter. “He’s with his father. He wants to show him some things he’s written and ask for his opinion on finding a patron.” He looked at me. “Do you think there’s any hope?”

  “I don’t see why not. It’s not as though Vitruvius doesn’t have a patron himself.”

  “Yes, but it’s Octavia and he’s sleeping with her. We were hoping for a patron who’s content simply with art.”

  “Has he tried Vergil?” Julia asked. “Or Horace?”

  “They both have more than a dozen writers whom they help fund. And Maecenas is interested only in Ovid.”

  “Then why can’t we be his patron?” Julia asked suddenly. “Marcellus and I are married, and now both of us have our own funds.”

  My brother stopped walking. “Really?”

  “Why not? Octavia has her writers, and it’s probably time that I have mine!”

  My brother laughed. “Lucius will be absolutely beside himself.”

  “There’s only one condition,” Julia stipulated. “In all of his work, I want to be young and pretty, even when I’m old and fat.”

  “Eternally beautiful,” my brother said. “Duly noted.”

  When we reached the shops along the Via Sacra, Julia wanted to go into them all. By the afternoon, we had chosen nearly everything she would ever need: chairs and chests made of citron wood, tripods with heavy bronze basins for incense and whose legs were decorated with gryphons’ heads and claws, tables made of rosewood, ivory-handled mirrors, hip baths in the shapes of sea-dragons and swans.

  “Your villa’s going to be like the Royal Palace of Alexandria,” my brother promised.