spoke about the bitterness of slavery, the more convinced I became that he could be the Red Eagle and that Marcellus was helping him.
Antonia had seen him with Gallia on the Palatine, and while it was possible that Gallia was writing the acta alone, it seemed far more probable that someone with access to supplies of papyrus and ink was behind them; someone whose presence on the Palatine would never be questioned, who had a quick wit and a reason to be angry. And if Verrius and Gallia were lovers, wouldn’t that be reason enough to rebel against slavery? Slaves were not allowed to marry unless freed, and on a magister’s salary, he could never afford a Gallic princess’s freedom.
That afternoon, I studied Gallia as she mended a tunic on the portico at the Campus Martius. She didn’t appear worried that someone might approach her with evidence of treachery. Although, when Marcellus announced that it was time for us to go to the Circus Maximus and Juba suddenly appeared at her side, I could see she was surprised. “Are you coming with us?” she asked Juba.
“Those are Caesar’s orders.”
“But we already have guards,” Julia complained. “Why do we need more?”
“Perhaps you would rather stay at home,” Juba suggested. “There’s nowhere as safe as your own chamber.”
Julia narrowed her eyes, and as we made our way to the Circus she grumbled, “Now we can’t do anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Juba is here. My father and he are like Romulus and Remus.”
“Didn’t Romulus
“You know what I mean!” Julia said irritably. Behind us, Gallia and Juba were walking together, their heads bent in quiet conversation. “Everything we do will get back to him now. At least Gallia is a slave and knows enough to keep silent.”
I glanced behind me, hoping Gallia hadn’t heard what she’d said. “And what about the guards who always follow us?” I asked. “Don’t they report back to your father?”
“Of course not,” Marcellus answered. “We pay them.”
“You mean bribery?” my brother exclaimed.
“Just a few denarii. And only when I’ve gambled too much, or visited a place I shouldn’t have.” He winked at my brother, and I wondered if he could mean a
When we approached the Circus, a large crowd was gathered around the entrance, and Juba said sternly, “What is this?” He pushed his way to the front and the people fell away from him. “Another actum?” he shouted. “Who did this?” Suddenly, no one was interested anymore, and Juba grabbed the closest man by the arm. “When was this placed on the door?”
The man shook his head. “I don’t know.” He trembled. “I saw it here this morning after we opened.”
“And no one took it down? Do you understand the penalty for supporting a rebel?”
“It—it isn’t support,” he stammered.
“Then why is it up here?”
“I don’t know. I just place bets. I don’t patrol the gates.”
Juba ripped down the scroll, and Marcellus stepped forward tentatively.
“May I see it?”
I thought that Juba would refuse, but he shoved the scroll at Marcellus, and we all gathered around. It was written in the same neat handwriting as the previous actum I’d seen, only this time the writer was denouncing the attempted assassination of Octavian, warning that bloodshed would only result in further bloodshed, and that rulers had as much right to a long life as slaves. He reminded his readers that Spartacus had failed, and that no rebellion could ever hope to achieve what votes of conscience by senators could. Then he went on to deride Octavian’s punishment of the plebs, promising riots in the Subura once the people began to starve. And there was more— something about helping slaves across the Mare Superum to their homelands. But Juba took back the scroll.
“That’s enough. You came here to watch the races. So let’s watch them.” He handed the crumpled actum to Gallia, who made it disappear into a beautifully embroidered bag at her side. I was always fascinated to see her clothing, including the embellished bags that no other slave ever carried. But Gallia was Octavia’s favorite.
We climbed to the seats reserved for Caesar’s family, and when Juba had settled into conversation with Gallia, Marcellus whispered, “I wonder why this rebel is willing to criticize my uncle, but opposes assassination?”
“Probably because if your uncle died, it wouldn’t be the patricians who’d suffer most, but the plebs,” I guessed. “The rich will always find something to eat. It’s the slaves and freedmen who would starve.”
“Do you really think there will be riots?” Julia asked.
“I should think so,” Marcellus replied, keeping his eye on the betmaker below us. When the man looked in our direction, Marcellus waved him over, taking out a purse full of denarii. “But they won’t be for long. Just as the freedmen are regretting their support of the Red Eagle and feeling hungry, the Ludi Romani will be here to distract them.”
“So you agree with their punishment?” I exclaimed.
“Of course not. But that’s what my uncle is thinking.” Marcellus passed the bet-maker his purse and said shrewdly, “The Greens. I hear they have purchased new horses.”
“That’s right. Twenty new stallions. All from Arabia.”
Alexander smiled, and I knew at once that he’d been the one to procure this information. “The Greens,” he said as well, and I gasped at the size of his purse. “I’ve been winning,” he explained. “So what are the Ludi Romani?”
“You haven’t heard about the Ludi?” Julia cried. “They’re only the biggest games on earth.”
“We had our own games,” I said tersely.
“Well, the Ludi Romani go on for fifteen days. Chariot races, gladiatorial events, theatrical performances….” She glanced uneasily at Juba. “Perhaps we won’t be going to those.”
“And you think your father will want to celebrate after an attempt to assassinate him?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s not a celebration,” Marcellus said. “It’s a tradition. Canceling the Ludi would be like canceling….” He searched for the right word.
“The month of June,” Julia said helpfully.
“Or deciding there will be no more Saturnalia. Besides, it keeps the people happy. All work is stopped on those days, and everyone comes with food and circus padding.”
Alexander wrinkled his nose. “What is that?”
Marcellus pointed to the bottom of the Circus, where men were carrying thick mats made of rushes. “Their seats aren’t covered like ours.”
Trumpets blared, and as the announcer signaled the start of the race, the gates were raised and chariots thundered onto the tracks. Julia and Alexander yelled themselves hoarse with Marcellus, and I took out my book, opening to the sketches Vitruvius had given me of Octavian’s mausoleum. He wanted designs for inside the building, and, in all likelihood, nothing I produced would be used. But I was determined to surprise him. I would sketch such handsome designs that he would find them irresistible. Perhaps there were other architects he employed who were several decades older than I, but none of them had lived in Alexandria and seen what the Ptolemies had accomplished. None of them had studied in the Museion, or dedicated years to sketching the most beautiful marble caryatids and mosaics in the world. When I took out my ink and stylus, I noticed that Juba was watching me.
“Sketching a new Rome?” he asked.
“It’s a commission.”
“Really? So you are being paid?”
“No. I am doing it to be helpful.”
Juba smiled. “Such a charitable nature, and not even twelve. Soon you’ll be passing out bread with Octavia.”
“I noticed you thanking her this morning,” I retorted. “So you
He raised his brows. “Of course. It’s the only portrait I have of my father.”
I clenched my jaw, determined not to be goaded by him any longer, and for the rest of afternoon, I made
