“It must be,” I replied.
He waddled between the stage and the bench, shaking hands with everyone. His fingers were weighed down with heavy gold rings, and when he came to Juba, he held up his hands. “The Prince of Numidia,” he announced louder than he needed. “Do I shake hands, or bow?”
Juba glanced at Octavian. “I believe we only bow for royalty, Pollio, and as yet, I am not the king of any kingdom.”
Pollio held out his fat hand, and Juba took it without enthusiasm.
“Livia”—Pollio breathed the word like a prayer—“you put Venus to shame.”
The blatancy of the lie made Octavian frown, but Livia beamed. “And you could flatter the thunderbolts from Jupiter,” she said.
Pollio moved to Octavian but didn’t attempt to shake his hand. “Caesar.”
“I hear you are conducting business in the theater. Does this look like a market?”
“Of course not. Forgive me.”
“You are a very wealthy man. But that wealth comes from grain contracts granted by Rome. This is not the Forum. If you confuse it again,” Octavian said simply, “you will find yourself without any business at all.”
As Pollio passed, I whispered to Octavia, “Is it an offense to conduct business in a place of entertainment?”
“No, but Julius Caesar used to do business when he came to the theater, and it angered the plebs. The people must not come to associate this place with patrician wealth.”
The orchestra began to play, and I glanced down the row at Tiberius, who was telling Vipsania something to make her laugh. On the other side of him, Octavia’s daughters were sitting silently, and I wondered if they had ever done anything in their lives that displeased their mother.
A thin actor in a toga came onstage through the curtained doorway. “We begin tonight as we begin all nights,” he said. “With a speech!” Several members in the crowd booed, and the actor smiled. “Perhaps you naysayers would like to give our orator a challenging topic, then?”
Alexander grinned at me. “Is he joking?”
“No. I think this is really what they do.”
Several members of the audience shouted, “Athens!” Another shouted, “Make him talk about the beauty of baldness.” And when one called out, “The Battle of Actium,” I clenched my jaw. “How about the value of a cheating wife?” someone suggested, and the actor clapped his hands. “We have a subject!”
I looked at Octavian, who seemed to be enjoying himself.
A fat orator appeared from the left of the stage. “The value of being a cuckold,” he began, and the entire audience descended into laughter. “When the horns of cuckoldry grow on your head, think of all the uses they might have. You can defend yourself without a sword.” He made the motion of charging, and the audience laughed again. “You could impale your enemies—or scratch an itch.” He rubbed his head on his flabby shoulder. “There are a thousand uses for a horned man. Not to mention a horny woman.” He went on to extol the virtues of a well- practiced wife, but as he went on to say that men would have fewer duties at the end of a long day, audience members groaned and someone shouted, “Bring on the bear!”
“I’m not finished,” the orator said angrily, but this only inspired the drunken men to further chants.
“Bring on the bear! Bring on the bear!”
I turned to Octavia. “Is there really a bear?”
She laughed. “No. There used to be bears in these theaters. They could do tricks, but they became too dangerous and my brother forbade them.”
“So what do they want?”
“For him to get off the stage and let the play begin.”
The actor who’d introduced the orator came out, and the fat man was led offstage to jeers and hisses.
“I thought he was good,” Alexander said sadly.
Next, the stage was filled with dancing nymphs. Two men appeared in the long-bearded masks of satyrs, and already the audience was laughing. One pranced, the other skipped, and a third masked man entered with a bow and arrow. The first satyr began to recite his lines, and as the third man pointed his arrow toward the audience, I realized what was happening.
“Octavian!” I screamed before I could stop myself, and suddenly Juba was on top of him, pushing him to the ground. The actor’s arrow whistled through the air, shattering as it struck the stone bench where Octavian had been sitting.
“In the name of the Red Eagle!” the masked bowman shouted.
Then pandemonium broke out.
Soldiers rushed the stage, but the actor was already gone, and people began fleeing from their seats. Soldiers made a tight ring around us, pushing us toward the exit.
Alexander took my arm. “How did you know?”
“I saw him nock the arrow.”
“But he was just an actor!”
There was the same panic in the air as there had been at the Circus—only this time, someone had tried to assassinate Caesar in the front row of the theater. Outside, there was no time to arrange litters. A cavalcade of heavily armed soldiers escorted us to the Palatine, and I could feel Julia’s fear as she pressed my hand. If her father had been killed, everything would have been lost: her villa on the Palatine, her marriage to Marcellus, the succession.
Octavian walked swiftly between Agrippa and Juba, and no one said anything, not even the passersby on the streets. When we reached his villa, he led us into the library. Slaves rushed to light the candelabra, and when they were finished Agrippa locked the heavy metal doors. Juba poured cups of wine, and, for the first time, I heard Octavia weep.
“This Red Eagle,” Octavian said, breaking the silence, “is now an assassin.”
“I doubt this was the Red Eagle. He spoke with a Gallic accent,” Agrippa said.
“So what stops this rebel from being a slave?” Livia shrieked.
“Look at his acta,” Juba said. “Are those the writings of a slave?”
“Then what are you saying?” Livia demanded, looking from face to face. “That this had nothing to do with that rebel?”
Silence fell over the group again, until Agrippa said, “Yes. This was a slave hoping to share in the Red Eagle’s glory.”
Octavian’s gray eyes flashed. “There is no glory in being a traitor,” he warned.
“Of course not. But to the slaves—”
“Tell me, what would happen if I had been killed?”
There was an uneasy shifting in the room.
“Juba,” Octavian said darkly, “why don’t you tell us? You’re well versed in history. What would happen to Rome?”
“The thirty tribes would go back to fighting,” Juba predicted. “They would not accept Marcellus as heir, since he is too young, and the Senate would not accept Agrippa, since he is a descendant of freedmen.”
“There would be chaos,” Octavian promised. “Instead of going forward, Rome would go backward. It may not have been the Red Eagle tonight, but the man is inspiring rebellion. And there are slaves and freedmen who are covering for him! A man doesn’t post a hundred acta without being seen!” He had begun to shout. “So perhaps we should see what our poor freedmen would rather have. Freedom, or food.”
Octavia gasped.
“We will stop the grain dole for ten days,” he commanded. “Tell them I must use the denarii to hire personal guards.”
“But hundreds will die!” Octavia cried.
Her brother sat back. “No one has ever died of a little hunger. Men can go for weeks without food.”
“Not the elderly! Not the sick children!”
“Then perhaps they should have thought of that before they helped a traitor,” Livia snapped. “This will turn the people against him,” she said eagerly, “and remind these freedmen why they will always need Caesar.”
Agrippa looked distinctly uncomfortable.
