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
“Is that a Grecian Nike?” Tiberius asked as we passed through the atrium.
Juba smiled. “From the sculptor Phidias himself.”
Octavian paused at several niches to admire the statues that Juba had found. Each time, he ran his hand over the marble, caressing a hand, an arm, the curve of a shoulder. When we reached the library, slaves rushed to light the oil lamps placed in tall candelabra, and the soft glow cast nearly a hundred statues in a warm golden light.
“Magnificent,” Octavia murmured.
“Where does he get them all?” my brother asked Marcellus.
“I travel throughout Rome looking for sellers,” Juba replied, having overheard my brother’s question. “And if I can’t find the right statue, I will go to Greece.”
Each of the statues was numbered, and all of them had small bronze plates at the base giving their names and where they were discovered. Octavian busied himself on the other side of the room, showing Livia and Octavia his favorites.
“Look at this one!” Julia exclaimed, pointing to an image of the goddess Aphrodite.
“She looks like you,” Marcellus said. It was true. The sculptor had chosen a model with rich black hair and eyes as dark and soft as twilight. All of the statues were painted, and only a few, whose paint had rubbed off after years of neglect, were flawless white marble.
“Let’s find one that looks like you,” Julia said eagerly, taking his arm, and they visited half a dozen statues before Julia decided that Marcellus looked like Apollo.
“We should come here more often,” Julia exclaimed. “I enjoy Grecian statues.”
“Of course you do,” Tiberius said nastily. “They speak to your vanity.”
“Well, perhaps we should pick one that looks like you. How about this?” She pointed to a hideous statue of a Gorgon, and Marcellus laughed.
“I think you’re being too generous,” he said.
I snickered, and Tiberius shot me a withering look. “You lower yourself with them.”
Across the library, Octavian regarded a statue of Jupiter. The god’s symbol was an eagle, and the proud bird perched on his marble shoulder. Octavian traced its beak with his finger.
“We will find him,” I heard Juba promise sternly.
Octavian looked up into the bird’s black eyes. “I know. And when we do, we will crucify him.”
When we returned to Octavia’s villa, Alexander and I pressed our ears against the wall of our chamber, listening to Octavia interrogate Marcellus.
“I want to know where you were while everyone else in this villa was asleep this afternoon!”
“I went for a walk,” Marcellus swore. “Down the hill,” he added, “around the Temple of Apollo.”
“Exactly where the Red Eagle’s note was found.”
“Mother,” he implored, “all I did was walk.”
“Without an escort? Without telling anyone?” she challenged. “The temple priest says he’s certain he saw a flaxen-haired man post the actum. How many men on this hill have such light hair?”
“Your brother!” he cried. “And almost every slave!”
“And do they have access to a temple next to Caesar’s villa?”
“Perhaps they snuck in and left him the message. Or perhaps it’s one of the workers themselves. Mother,” he protested, “you don’t really believe—?”
“Why not? I see you with Gallia. She’s beautiful. Perhaps you feel sorry for her.”
“Of course I feel sorry. But to betray my uncle?”
There was silence in the next room, and when I went to speak, Alexander shook his head. Octavia’s reply was soft. “You are idealistic and rash. But I shall hope you are not so rash as that, Marcellus.”
“I promise you, Mother, I’m not the Red Eagle. Look at his writing.”
“Gallia can write. Perhaps you are posting
“And risking everything? Do you know what Octavian would do—?”
“I know exactly what he’d do, even if he discovered it was you. And there would be no mercy.”
“I wouldn’t need it. I know nothing about this. All I did was go for a walk.”
“Then that was your last walk alone,” she said darkly.
We heard the door open and scrambled away from the wall.
I looked at Alexander. “Do you really think it could be Marcellus?”
“You heard him. Why would he risk his position as Caesar’s heir? He could just as easily wait to become Caesar and change the laws, if that’s what he wanted.”
I sat against the back of my couch and drew up my knees. “Then Gallia?”
“It’s possible. She has every reason, and if Octavia already suspects her….”
The next morning, I watched Gallia as she carefully laid out a fresh tunic on my couch, and I wondered if those same delicate hands were responsible for crafting the rebellious acta. I noticed my brother watching her, too, moving more slowly than usual with his toga and sandals.
“What is this?” Gallia asked in frustration. “Do I have to dress the both of you myself? Domina, the architect is waiting for you!”
“It’s Selene and Alexander. Not Domini.”
When I shoved my diadem back on my brow, she moved to arrange it tenderly among my curls. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
“You are a princess as much as I am,” I replied.
“Not anymore.” She pressed her lips together.
I would have argued with her, but Octavia appeared in the doorway and waited with her hands on her hips while I fetched my book of sketches. “I’m coming,” I promised, and followed her into the atrium. “Do you think Vitruvius will agree to tutor me?”
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “He’s a very busy man who’s never taken a single apprentice. But we can try.” She guided me into the library, where neatly labeled scrolls rose to the ceiling on polished cedar shelves. The architect Vitruvius was already waiting, sitting behind a table with his hands folded in front of him, contemplating the drawing I had given to Octavian. When he heard us approach, his chin jerked up, and his eyes fixed on my book of sketches.
“So you are Selene,” he said, regarding me with his sharp, dark eyes. “And I hear you like to draw.” His tone was bemused.
“Just look at what she’s already done,” Octavia said. “She has talent. Even my brother thinks so.”
I looked at Vitruvius, with his lean face and angular jaw, and wondered what he was thinking.
“Let me see your sketches,” he said at last.
I gave him my book, and he quietly flipped through it. He studied each page with a critical gaze, pausing the longest over the drawing of my mother’s mausoleum. Slowly, he held it up to the light, then lowered it again so that he could question me. “Is this in Alexandria?”
