Cleopatra’s Daughter

other in the flickering light.

“Our mother never came to us at night,” he remarked.

“Because our mother was a ruler, not the sister of one.”

“Do you think Father really loved Octavia?”

It seemed cruel to say no, but Octavia was nothing like our mother, and I couldn’t imagine my father ever racing chariots with her on the Canopic Way, or spinning her in his arms whenever she won. “Perhaps he loved her kindness,” I offered, and Alexander nodded.

“Marcellus has the same compassion, doesn’t he? And I doubt there’s anyone in Rome more beautiful.”

I stared at him. “You’re not a Ganymede, are you?”

“Of course not!” He blushed furiously.

I kept staring at him, but he blew out the light, and in the darkness, I was too tired to argue.

The clothes that were brought to our chamber the next morning were insulting. Alexander held up his linen kilt, and I crumpled the beaded dress in my hands.

“Is this what Romans think Egyptians wear?” I asked angrily. The hills were still pink with the blush of dawn, but I could hear that the villa was already awake.

“Of course,” Gallia said, and I could see that she wasn’t mocking me.

“A thousand years ago queens wore beaded dresses,” I told her. “Now they wear silk chitons!”

“That is not what I have seen in the paintings or statues.”

“Because they’re stylized,” Alexander explained patiently. “I have never worn a kilt in my life.”

“I am sorry,” she said, and I could see that she was. As a child, she must have suffered the same humiliation when she was paraded through the streets of Rome. “But this is what Caesar has instructed.”

I did not fight her when she took me to the bathing room. I could see that Gallia was unhappy, but when she helped me to put on the beaded dress and I looked in the mirror, my cheeks grew hot. The beads covered only the most important places; otherwise I might as well have been naked.

But when Octavia arrived, her hand flew to her mouth. “What is she wearing?”

“What Caesar ordered,” Gallia said indignantly.

“She will not be paraded through the streets like a whore!” She turned to me. “Have you brought other clothes?”

“Silk tunics and wigs,” I answered swiftly.

“And that’s what you wore in Alexandria?”

“With paints.”

“Then fetch them.” She closed her eyes briefly. “Better paint than this.”

Octavia watched while Gallia fit the wig over my hair, and she frowned a little when I showed Gallia how to extend the dark lines of antimony outward from the corners of my eyes. Gallia wanted to know about everything I unpacked. The henna for my hands, the moringa oil for my face, the pumice stone for removing extra hair around my brows.

“You are too young for that!” Gallia said sternly. “You will rub your face raw.”

“That’s what this is for.” I showed her the cream Charmion had used on my face every morning. She held it to her nose, then passed it to Octavia.

“And all women wear these things?” Octavia asked quietly. “Henna and wigs?”

“On special occasions,” I told her.

She glanced at Gallia, who said, “It’s not much different from the malachite that Romans use for eye shadow, Domina. The Egyptians just prefer more of it.”

When we left the bathing room and returned to the chamber, I suppressed a laugh. My brother was dressed in a long linen kilt. A golden pectoral shone from his chest, and a pharaoh’s blue and gold nemes headdress had replaced his diadem. When he turned, he crossed his arms angrily. “How come you get to wear your tunic, and I have to wear this?”

“Because Caesar wanted me to wear a beaded dress.”

He gasped. “Like a dancer?”

“Or a whore,” I said in Parthian.

Octavia cleared her throat. “We are going to the atrium now.” She smoothed her stola nervously. “My brother is coming here to make an offering. Then the procession will begin at the Senate. Nothing will happen to you,” she promised.

“You will be on the float behind Caesar,” Gallia explained. “And the plebs will never risk hurling stones if they think they might hit him.”

“But they might hurl other things,” my brother ventured.

Gallia looked to Octavia, who shook her head firmly. “No. You will be close to Octavian. I will see to that.”

I took my brother’s arm. In the atrium, Octavian and Livia had already arrived. They were instructing Marcellus and Tiberius on where they would ride during the Triumph, though Marcellus seemed to be more intent on smiling at Julia. As soon as we appeared, the conversation faltered. Agrippa and Juba stopped polishing their swords.

“By the Furies!” Marcellus exclaimed, and moved toward me. “Look at this wig.” While everyone turned to look, Julia watched me with unveiled disgust. There will be trouble with her, I thought.

“Where is the beaded dress?” Livia demanded, and I realized it wasn’t Caesar who had ordered the dress for me, but Livia. She wanted to see me humiliated. But when no one answered her, she repeated, “Where is the dress?” She advanced, but Gallia stepped in front of me.

“There was an unfortunate accident with the dress this morning. It appears that Domina’s cat mistook it for a plaything.”

“You arrogant little lupa. Move!”

Gallia stepped aside, but Octavia took her place. “The dress is gone, Livia.”

“Liar! I know you took—”

“You are speaking to the sister of Caesar, who does not lie,” Octavian said angrily.

Livia lowered her eyes in shame. “Forgive me, Octavian.”

“It is my sister you have offended, not me.”

Everyone watched while Livia turned to Octavia. “I am sorry,” she said, though her words sounded more bitter than contrite.

Octavia merely nodded. She hadn’t lied. The dress was gone, given to one of the slaves to sell in the marketplace. It was Gallia who had twisted the truth, and I wished my wig could make me disappear when Livia’s eyes settled on me. She will never forget this humiliation. She will blame me for this. Me and Gallia.

“Where is my speech?” Octavian demanded.

Livia produced it slowly from her sleeve. He took the scroll from her, and when he unrolled it, he nodded approvingly. “This is good.” I noticed he was wearing a steel corselet beneath his toga, and he shifted uncomfortably under the weight. “Agrippa, Juba, you understand not to move during the speech?”

“I will be on your left,” Agrippa promised. “Juba will be on your right. If a senator moves toward you—”

“Then you have my permission to draw your sword. We are a family,” he said sternly, looking from Octavia to Livia to Marcellus. “Family members protect one another, and the people of Rome must see this. The plebs look to the Julio-Claudii to understand tradition, unity, morality. And if we cannot be happy, what chance is there for a brick-maker to be happy? So there will be smiles, even from Tiberius.”

Tiberius made a purposely ugly grin, and Marcellus snickered. “How handsome!”

“I’m sorry I can’t be as beautiful as you,” Tiberius snapped at Marcellus.

But Octavian was not in the mood for banter. “Enough! Octavia, the Lares.”

Octavia reached into a small cabinet and took out a vessel of wine. She poured a cup’s worth into a shallow bowl beneath the bust of Julius Caesar, and, together, everyone in the room intoned “Do ut des”: I give so you will give.