Cleopatra’s Daughter

Tiberius looked pleased with my ignorance. ”Who’s Sallust?” he repeated. “Only the greatest writer of Rome’s military history. Haven’t you read his Jugurthine War? or The Conspiracy of Catiline?”

“No one’s interested in those boring works but you,” Marcellus said.

Gallia cleared her throat before the argument could continue. “To the Campus,” she said.

“If we make it there,” Julia grumbled. “Look at these people. They’re everywhere.”

It was the second day of Octavian’s Triumph, and a parade had just passed by the Forum, where thousands of spectators had come for the entertainment. Children, chased by screeching sisters and brothers, ran between the columns, while mothers scolded and fathers laughed. There was no breeze as there had been in Alexandria, so the scent of incense from the Temple of Venus Genetrix lingered in the air along with the scent of ofellae, round pieces of baked dough topped with melted cheese. Men and women from every corner of the world were crowded together, and I recognized German and Gallic men from their height and flaxen-colored hair. Dark women from the southern parts of Egypt, balancing colorful baskets on their heads, wove lithely between groups of drunken men and Assyrian shopkeepers.

“This way,” Gallia said, pushing back the strands that had escaped from her long braid. The sun was at its highest point, baking the stones beneath our feet so that even through the leather of our sandals we could feel the rising heat.

“So what kind of exercise do we do?” I asked Julia.

She sniffed dismissively. “It’s the men who exercise. And while they get to practice their sword fighting and horse riding, we get to sit with Livia and weave. Gallia will stay with us, and Octavia will be there with her girls, and Vipsania.”

“But I don’t know how to weave!”

“At all?”

“Of course not.”

“But what did you do while your brother exercised?”

“I swam with him.”

“In the river?” she exlaimed.

“No. In the pools. Why would anyone want to weave?”

“They wouldn’t,” she said grimly. “But Livia thinks it will keep us modest.”

“Perhaps I can draw,” I said feebly, and indicated the leather bag at my side with my book of sketches and Magister Verrius’s scroll.

But Julia warned, “She will teach you to weave even if your fingers bleed.” She looked up and sighed. “Here we are.”

As the Campus Martius came into view, Alexander looked at me in surprise. Hundreds of buildings filled the horizon, jostling for space outside the walls of Rome. Marble baths nestled against the concrete walls of theaters, and giant arches competed for attention next to bustling forums.

“Have you ever seen so many buildings?” my brother asked.

“Not all in one place,” I said disapprovingly. We walked past the strangest jumble of shops—built without uniformity or any attention to design. From sweaty bakeries, men tried to tempt us with sows’ udders and crab cakes, while on the polished steps of the marble baths, merchants hawked Egyptian linen and scented oils.

“That will be the site for Agrippa’s Pantheon,” Marcellus said, indicating a field strewn with broken columns and abandoned carts.

“That will be a temple?” I confirmed.

He laughed. “It doesn’t look like much now, but once my mother’s architect lays his hands on it….”

I searched the streets for the Temple of Isis, but too many buildings were crowded together to tell them apart. “And what about the Egyptian temple?” I asked.

“It’s just a few streets away,” Marcellus said eagerly. “Would you like to go?”

“Absolutely not!” Gallia said sternly, giving me a dark look. “Caesar is waiting.”

“But it’s on the way,” Marcellus protested.

“So is the lupanar,” she said angrily. “Would you like to go there, too?”

“I’ve never been inside the Temple of Isis,” Tiberius said suddenly, and everyone looked at him. “I think we should go.”

“You see?” Marcellus said. “Even Tiberius thinks it’s a good idea. We’ll be quick,” he promised. “Alexander and Selene could show us what all of the strange paintings mean.”

“And those masks,” Julia added. “Haven’t you ever wanted to go inside?”

It was five against one. Gallia glanced at the guards.

“Don’t worry about them,” Marcellus swore. “They won’t say anything.”

“Really?” I asked. “How do you know?”

He turned to me and grinned. “Trust me.”

Gallia looked at Tiberius. I suspected that if anyone would go running to Octavian, it would be him.

“I’d like to go,” he said simply. “No one will find out. And if they do, you can just blame it on Selene and say that she took off running. That wouldn’t be so unlikely, would it?” he asked pointedly.

Marcellus saw my discomfort and interjected, “Come on!”

We walked briskly down several crowded streets, and I tried not to show my excitement. Despite Gallia’s misgivings and Juba’s anger, I would be meeting with the High Priest of Isis and Serapis.

“Do you think this is a wise idea?” my brother asked in Parthian.

“Of course it is.”

“If Octavian finds out, he might banish the Temple of Isis from Rome altogether.”

“We have to meet the High Priest, Alexander. If he can’t help us return to Egypt, then perhaps he knows someone who can.”

“What?” my brother exclaimed. “Are you mad?” Marcellus and Julia both looked in our direction. My brother lowered his voice. “It will never work. Don’t even think it. You’ve caused enough trouble.”

“For you!”

He flinched.

“Don’t you want to return?”

“Of course. I’m the rightful King of Egypt.”

“Well, you heard Octavian as well as I did. He plans to marry me off and keep you alive only so long as it seems merciful.”

“He … he might change his mind.”

“And if he doesn’t? Don’t you think we should have a plan for that?” I could already smell the strong scent of kyphi, just like in Alexandria. “I would rather risk my life trying to escape,” I said firmly, “than wait for Octavian to cut you down like Antyllus or Caesarion.”

My brother didn’t say anything, but as we approached the temple, he hesitated. On the steps, a group of soldiers had surrounded a young man and woman.

“Domine, this is not a good idea!” Gallia exclaimed.

“Why? What’s the harm in a few soldiers?” Marcellus asked. “They’re probably just hassling a beggar.” He pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers, while Tiberius snapped, “Stand back.”

“Domine, do not interfere!”

“What’s happening?” Marcellus demanded.

A gray-haired centurion at the edge of the circle studied Marcellus. “Who are you?”

“Son of Caesar,” Tiberius announced proudly.

The centurion looked at Octavian’s guards, who stood behind us. “And what are you doing here?”

“That’s none of your business,” Tiberius snapped.

“Who is the woman?” Marcellus asked.

The centurion narrowed his eyes. “A slave. Claims this man is her husband and that the pair of them were freed.” He held up a small leather bag and shook it up and down. Coins clinked against each other. “Obviously stolen gold, probably from Caesar’s caravan.”

“The one that was attacked last week on its way to the Temple of Saturn?” Tiberius demanded.