Cleopatra’s Daughter: A Novel (20 page)

“Then we will go shopping,” Julia promised me. “I’ll take you to the markets and we’ll pick out something we can wear to the theater. When my father’s here, we go once a month.” The sound of trumpets echoed in the Circus, and Julia became distracted. “The Reds are out in front, just as Alexander said!” She stood up, and while she and Marcellus shouted for the Whites to hurry, I took out my book of sketches. She looked back at me. “You’re not going to draw right now?” she exclaimed.

“Why not? There is nothing like this in Alexandria.”

“No stadia?” she shouted over the jubilation of the crowds. The charioteers were on their final lap.

“Certainly, but nothing this large.”

When the Reds won, Marcellus sat down and clapped Alexander on the back. “You know your horses, don’t you? But you think they’ll really win a second time?”

“If the Reds have the same kind of riders, I don’t see why not.” Below, the track was being cleared, and the body of a charioteer who’d fallen under the hooves of an opponent’s horses was being dragged away. A troupe of musicians appeared to entertain the crowds while the track was being smoothed, and slaves clambered toward us to pull an awning over the western section of the Circus, where the wealthy had their seats.

Julia watched as I began my sketch by drawing the long
spina
in the center of the track. Unlike the stadium in Alexandria, where the
spina
had been a plain stone barrier, the Circus had two rectangular basins filled with water. In each basin were seven bronze dolphins spouting water from their mouths, and with every completed lap, an
official turned a dolphin in the opposite direction. And for those whose eyes weren’t good enough to see whether the dolphins were facing north or south, there were seven bronze eggs and a second official to take one down for every lap.

“Those were built by Agrippa,” Julia explained.

“How much has he constructed?” I asked. “It seems to be half of Rome.”

She laughed. “That’s because he’s my father’s greatest builder.”

“So he does it himself?”

“He just comes up with the ideas and the denarii. I suppose the architect Vitruvius does the drawing. Have you seen him?” she asked. “You know, he’s Octavia’s lover.”

“I saw him in the villa. How long have they been living together?”

“Since your father announced he was going to divorce her. She’d already been alone for several years.”

“Do you think she loved him?”

Julia looked at me askance. “Your father? Of course! Why do you think she raised all those legions for his eastern campaigns?”

My response was cut off by the sudden clamor of people below us. Thousands of spectators were on their feet, looking in our direction and pointing above us. “The Red Eagle!” someone next to us cried, and when I looked up, I saw that the vast gold awning that the slaves had fastened above the western end of the Circus had been painted with a bird. Its wings were spread and from its outstretched talons a pair of children were struggling to be free. I didn’t have to see the Egyptian wigs or the white diadems to know who they were supposed to be.

“That’s you,” Julia whispered, aghast.

Immediately, Gallia rose to her feet. “Go!” she shouted, and then we were moving.

“What about our bets?” Marcellus cried.

Gallia spun around. “Caesar is watching these races right now, and what do you think he’s seeing from the Palatine?”

“But how did he do it?” Marcellus marveled. He looked up at the red eagle. It was beautifully painted and had been completely hidden from view until the awning was opened.

Alexander shook his head. “He must have come during the night.”

Julia held on to my arm as we descended into the chaos. Men and women with the best seats in the Circus were rushing toward the gates before they could be accused of bearing witness to treachery. But slaves were taking up the chant of “Red Eagle,” which could be heard over the water horns of the musicians, and those who wanted the races to go on began throwing their food at the canopy.

“Hurry!” Gallia exclaimed. “Before there’s a riot and we can’t get out!” She pressed forward in the madness, and we shoved our way down the stairs onto the street. As we reached the gates, I felt someone’s hand on the bag at my side, and when I turned, the young boy who was going to steal from me held up his hands in innocent protest.

“Do it again and I’ll knife you,” I swore. He leered, and I wondered if he knew that I was bluffing.

In the streets, we could finally breathe again, but Gallia didn’t stop. Although it would have been undignified to run, that is nearly what we did all the way to the Palatine.

“Look!” Marcellus pointed. A crowd was gathering around the doors to the Temple of Jupiter, and the people stepped back when they recognized Marcellus.

“Another actum from the Red Eagle!” Julia pushed forward, despite Gallia’s objections, and read the actum aloud to us. “He’s complaining about the Triumphs,” she said, quickly reading the papyrus. “And look at this! He’s freed a hundred and fifty slaves coming from
Greece.” Three sheets with the same content had been posted, and the crowd regarded them silently. “He’s also purchased the freedom of twenty children and returned them to their parents in Gaul.”

She read a short list of names, and I wondered whether it was possible that he might help me and Alexander next. He had risked his life to paint our image above the Circus, and his message had been clear. Our fate was to be the same as that of any slave who could be killed on his master’s whim. If he knew that Octavian planned to kill us, surely he would help us escape from Rome. But that would be costly. “He must be wealthy,” I observed.

“He must be brave.” Julia sighed.

A priest emerged from the temple to see what was happening and shouted angrily, “Get out of here or Caesar will hear of this!” He tore the three sheets of papyrus from his temple doors and flung them to the ground.

ONLY
A small party gathered in Octavian’s triclinium for the evening meal. Juba and Agrippa were both in attendance, and Maecenas was there with his attractive wife, Terentilla, but no one was in a particularly merry mood. Although we were at a separate table, Marcellus and Julia spoke softly, afraid their voices might arouse Octavian’s wrath.

“I don’t know why everyone’s whispering,” Tiberius said suddenly. “It’s not like this rebel hasn’t pulled pranks like this before. So he painted an awning.”

“On a day of
Triumph,”
Marcellus whispered. “And with another to go.”

“So what?” Tiberius asked arrogantly. “Tomorrow, Octavian will toss coins in the Circus, and the people will fight one another for them like animals and it will all be forgotten.”

We looked at Octavian, who was scribbling furiously on a scroll. The boiled capons in front of him had gone neglected, and he seemed to be eating a simple salad of rosemary flowers.

“What do you think he’s writing?” I asked nervously.

“His memoirs.”

I thought Tiberius was being sarcastic, but Marcellus nodded. “He records everything.”

“Why?” I asked.

“He thinks his heir will read his musings someday and become a better leader.”

Tiberius sniffed dismissively. “If he only knew.”

“What are you trying to say?” Marcellus demanded.

Tiberius smiled. “I think you know.”

Marcellus rose from his couch, and I was certain there were going to be blows, when a young boy rushed into the triclinium and everyone turned. With trembling hands, he held up a scroll, and Livia demanded, “What is it?”

The slave held out the missive. “Some builders found this while working on the Temple of Apollo, Domina. It’s addressed to Caesar, and has the stamp—”

Livia grabbed the scroll before the boy could finish. “Another one!” she shrieked. “Another actum!” She passed it to Octavian, and as he read, the color heightened in his cheeks. He looked at the slave, who was shaking in his sandals.

“So tell me,” he began with frightening calm, “were there witnesses to this deed?”

“No,” the boy squeaked. “When the workers arrived this afternoon, it was already nailed to the temple door.”

Octavian put down his reed pen, and the room fell silent. “Go,” he said, and the boy ran from the room as fast as his feet could carry him.

Octavian turned to Agrippa. “This man has access to the Palatine, and is someone who must not have aroused suspicion when he approached the Temple of Apollo.” He stood slowly. “So what shall we do about this, Agrippa?”

He handed the scroll to his general, who skimmed the contents. “He wants every slave in Rome to be freed.”

“That’s already been established!” Octavian shouted.

“But he must be a senator.” Agrippa read aloud from the scroll:

“Only someone in the Senate would have heard your speech.”

But Juba frowned. “Senators talk. It could have been anyone.”

“So why don’t we do something?” Livia demanded.

“And what should that be?” Juba raised his brows. “Stand at every temple door in Rome?”

“If that’s what needs to be done,” she cried. “Your job is to—”

“Enough!” Octavian shouted, and immediately Livia fell silent. “We have heard enough of this.” But a soldier appeared at the door, and the color rose on Octavian’s neck. “What is it?”

The soldier hesitated before crossing the triclinium. “There—there is news, Caesar. A stockpile of weapons has been discovered in the Forum Boarium. We believe they belong to a group of escaped slaves.”

Agrippa was on his feet at once. “What kind of weapons?”

“Javelins, swords, daggers, spears, bows, arrows. Plus infantry helmets, armor, and shields. And most of them new.”

Octavian looked from Juba to Agrippa. “They are planning rebellion.” He stood so quickly that his water spilled across the table. “I
want every slave forbidden from purchasing weaponry anywhere in Rome!”

“But how will the merchants know—?”

“Proof of citizenship!” Octavian bellowed.

The soldier nodded quickly. “But if I may ask a question, Caesar. Where is the gold coming from for these weapons? Most of them were recently forged. If we can find the source—”

“A caravan on the way from Judea to the Temple of Saturn was attacked,” Agrippa said. “The gold must have been used to buy weaponry.”

Octavian put his hand to his forehead and rubbed his temples with his forefinger and thumb. The triclinium went silent. Even Livia held her tongue. “You are dismissed.” The soldier didn’t need to be told twice; like the boy who had brought in the actum, he swiftly disappeared. Octavian turned to Juba. “Take us to your villa. I want to see the new statues. This meal is finished,” he announced.

Juba stood up from his couch, and everyone rose, leaving their food whether or not they were finished. We followed him through the triclinium, and once we were outside he led us along the hill to a villa that was perched in a grove of ancient oaks. The shutters of his house were painted green, and the double doors were studded with bronze.

“Juba must be extremely wealthy,” I whispered.

Julia nodded. “He earned it himself.”

“Through his writing?”

“And antiques,” Marcellus added. “My mother pays him to find authentic statues from Greece, and he probably has other clients.”

Juba held open the doors for us, and inside, the flooring was
opus signinum
, made from small fragments of tiles and amphorae painstakingly embedded in clay. Wicker partitions divided some of the rooms, and as we walked through the villa I noticed that the couches
were carved into fantastical shapes of every kind: gryphons and sea serpents, Gorgons and Sirens. It was the house of a man who had traveled extensively.