Cleopatra’s Daughter

part with it. It’s a very rare statue, by a sculptor who made very few pieces in his life.”

“And it belonged to Juba?”

Marcellus nodded. “He was brought to Rome when he was two or three. So up until then, I suppose it was his.”

“But why would Octavia send you?” Alexander asked.

“I don’t know,” I said defensively, sitting down on my couch and opening my book to an empty page. “Perhaps it was a punishment.”

Marcellus laughed. “After tonight? I doubt it. Why? Was he in a foul mood?”

“Isn’t he always? He was working on his history of the world.”

“He wants to create a complete history of every kingdom,” Marcellus explained. “Chart their lands, record their languages, study their people. Perhaps she sent you because she thought it would mean more.”

I drew up my knees and blushed at the thought that I’d been willing to believe that Juba was the Red Eagle. Everything belongs to Caesar, he’d told me. Especially him. He would be the last person on the Palatine to betray Rome. Even Agrippa would defy Octavian before Juba would. But I didn’t want to think about him anymore. While Marcellus and Alexander whispered over candelight about what had happened in the theater, I took out my ink and stylus and sketched a two-storied building instead. I added frescoed walls and mosaic flooring, and enough rooms to shelter more than three hundred children. When Marcellus stood up to go, he leaned over my shoulder.

“What are you drawing?”

“A building.”

“May I see?”

I held out my sketch. From the outside, it was just like any other building. But the images I had drawn for the chambers inside should have made it clear what it was supposed to be.

“An inn?” he asked uncertainly. “But why would an inn need so many beds?”

Alexander peered over his shoulder and asked, “Is this for the foundlings?”

I took my sketch from Marcellus’s hands. “They can’t just be left beneath the Columna Lactaria! Think how many must die of exposure. It’s a terrible practice.”

“It is.” Marcellus nodded. “But how would it help to shelter them in a building?”

“Adoptions could be arranged.”

“And the ones who aren’t adopted?” he asked.

“Then they can be given to the temples and raised as akolouthoi.”

Marcellus frowned.

“Helpers,” my brother said.

“And eventually priests and priestesses,” I added.

Marcellus studied me, and the tenderness in his eyes made my heart beat faster. “It’s a wonderful idea, Selene. And if I ever become Caesar, I will see that it’s done.”

“Really?”

“Why not? You’re like my mother,” he said. “You only want what’s best for people.” He opened the door to leave, and I was surprised that Octavia hadn’t already come in and sent us to bed. Perhaps she was with her brother or Vitruvius.

When Marcellus left, Alexander looked sternly at me. “Don’t think it. He’s meant for Julia, Selene.”

“I’m not thinking anything!”

“Yes, you were. And you might as well stop it.”

He blew out the lamp and fell asleep. But I was still awake when a window slowly opened next door. There was a dull thud as something hit the ground outside. I raced to our balcony and threw back the curtains in time to see Marcellus disappearing into the darkness. What could he be thinking, with so many of his father’s guards outside? Perhaps they were in his pay. So far as I knew, word had never reached Octavian about our trip to the Temple of Isis or what Marcellus had told the centurion. But I wondered where he could be going that was worth the risk.

When I entered the library the next morning, Vitruvius studied me with an interested gaze.

“I hear you saved Caesar’s life yesterday.”

Heat crept into my cheeks. “It was Juba who saved him.”

“But you sounded the alarm. You are very quick. And that’s why someone as sharp as you will be able to understand this.” He unfurled a long scroll and laid it on the table in front of me.

“Octavian’s mausoleum,” I said.

Vitruvius nodded.

Octavian had wanted something as impressive as my mother’s tomb in Alexandria, with tall marble columns and a towering dome. But even though the sketch had a similar dome and the mausoleum was surrounded by a round columned portico, the building lacked the grandness of my mother’s mausoleum. It was raised above the ground on a circular platform that would probably be made of limestone, with a flight of steps sweeping from the bottom to the top. The stairs were flanked by a pair of red granite obelisks, and although there was simple elegance to it, no one would ever stop in amazement as people had done in Alexandria. I looked up from the sketch to Vitruvius and guessed, “You have made something simple that won’t insult the plebs. Because right now he’s afraid of assassination, and of appearing too powerful, like Julius Caesar.”

Vitruvius smiled. “Indeed. Perhaps last night was the work of a lone man, or perhaps the assassin was really with this traitor the freedmen have taken to calling the Red Eagle. Either way, the people are angry.”

“What will Caesar do?”

“What can he do?” Vitruvius rolled up the scroll. “Enough attempts and the plebs will begin to believe that Caesar is a tyrant. He can build the grandest stadia and baths in Rome, but for himself, it must be something simple.”

“But will he like it?”

“He appeared to like it very much when I showed it to him this morning.”

“He was up?”

“He is always up. Pacing, writing, preparing speeches for the Senate.”

“And will you show me how you executed this?” There were measurements next to every wall shown in the sketch, and near the stairs there were equations I couldn’t understand.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time for a lesson today.” When he saw my disappointment, he added, “But in a few days I shall. Until then, these are the chambers inside the mausoleum.” He handed me a scroll on which he’d drawn empty rooms, labeling each one with its dimensions next to it. “Furnish them,” he said simply. “Add mosaics, caryatids, fountains. The plebs will only see the outside, so the furnishings can be as lavish as you want. And if I like what you’ve drawn, I may incorporate it in the final construction.”

I was shocked by the trust Vitruvius was placing in me. “Thank you,” I said, and Vitruvius smiled. “These will be my best sketches,” I promised him. I rolled the scroll carefully.

As I was leaving, Vitruvius added, “Rome is proud of you. Caesar will not forget what you’ve done.”

I turned. “Do you think it means that Alexander and I will be sent back to Egypt?”

Vitruvius hesitated. “Caesar has sent a prefect to rule Egypt in his place.”

“But he could be recalled.”

“He could.” His voice didn’t offer much hope. “But before that would ever happen, Caesar will want to arrange your marriages. You must be very careful these next few years, Selene. You have seen Caesar at his most merciful,” he said quietly. “But when they find this bowman, he will be crucified. And whoever helped him to get on stage, even if it was Terentilla herself, will die with him.”

I nodded. “I’ll be careful,” I promised.

“And watchful.”

I began by being watchful in the ludus. When Magister Verrius read passages from the Iliad, I noticed how he lingered on the passages that described Hector’s wife and children, who were sold into slavery. He described Hector’s fight as heroic, his death as valiant, and the sacking of his city as the greatest tragedy, since its inhabitants would lose, if not their lives, then their freedom. The longer he