Cleopatra’s Daughter

Julia looked at me with alarm. “Of course not! But imagine a man daring enough to free gladiators from their cells.” She sighed. “Spartacus was courageous. But the Red Eagle,” she whispered eagerly, “could be anyone. He might not even be a slave.”

I recalled Gallia’s meeting with Magister Verrius. Since then, I’d tried several times to speak with her about the Red Eagle, and every time, she’d dismissed me with a wave. “It would be dangerous to fall in love with a rebel,” I warned.

Julia laughed. “Plenty of women fall in love with gladiators, and most of the gladiators are criminals.” She opened the curtain and pointed to the merchants on the side of the road. “You see what they’re selling?”

“Ofellae?”

“No.” She made a face. “Look closer.”

“Are those—?” I clapped my hand over my mouth.

Julia giggled. The shopkeepers were selling statuettes of gladiators with erect penises. “Everyone knows that women lust after them.” She let the curtain fall back into place. “Even Horatia has had one,” she confessed.

I leaned forward. “Without her husband knowing?”

“Pollio has taken half a dozen of her slave girls. She deserves some happiness.”

“But what if he catches her?”

“It was only once. And he’ll never divorce her.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he told my father that he never wants anything but fourteen-year-old girls.”

“And what does he think? She won’t ever grow old?”

“Sure. But she will always be small. Like you.” I shuddered at the thought of a man like Pollio taking me to his couch and pressing his naked stomach against mine, just like the man on the Palatine. I will never let that happen to me again. I will follow my mother to the grave before I’m subjected to that. I suspected that Julia could read the disgust on my face, because she added, “Horatia swore that she’d open her wrists before she wed Pollio.”

There was a shrill scream on the other side of the curtain, and Julia rushed to open it again. On the steps of a temple, an old man was thrashing two boys with a whip. They knelt on the steps of the temple and cowered, covering their heads with their arms.

“Why don’t they run?” I cried.

“They’re slaves.” Julia leaned forward to get a better view. “In fact, they’re Fabius’s slaves!”

“You recognize him?”

She threw a look over her shoulder. “He’s one of the richest men in Rome.”

The cries of the two boys were terrible to hear. I covered my ears with my hands. “But what could they have done?”

“To Fabius? I’ve heard it doesn’t take much more than rebuffing his advances.”

“To boys?”

“And girls. And widows. And matrons. Disgusting,” she said, and let the curtain fall into place.

When we arrived, Agrippa made certain that Caesar’s box was ready, then returned to help us from our litters.

“This is the new amphitheater,” Julia said eagerly. “I wonder what our seats will be like.”

Members of Octavian’s Praetorian Guard escorted us through the crowd. Armed soldiers cleared away the plebs, but I noticed that Octavian still walked between Juba and Agrippa.

“So what do you think?” a familiar voice asked, and when I turned, Vitruvius was standing with Octavia. He smiled. “Brand-new. Built by Consul Titus Statilius Taurus.”

“It’s very handsome,” I said cautiously. The amphitheater towered above the Campus Martius, and even though it was swarming with people, its elegance was undisturbed. The ground floor was occupied by shops tucked neatly between the painted arches, and large columns had been carved like friezes into the sides.

“But?” Vitruvius asked.

“But I would have chosen red granite instead of limestone. The limestone will look dirty in a few years’ time.”

Vitruvius smiled. “I would have to agree with you.”

“Vitruvius tells me you have a strong understanding of geometry,” Octavia said, taking his arm, “and that he is exceptionally impressed by your designs for my brother’s mausoleum.”

When I looked to Vitruvius in surprise, Octavia laughed.

“Oh, he is sparing with his praise. But he’s shown me your work.”

“I’d like to see it,” Marcellus said.

“Her sketches are in the library,” Vitruvius replied.

Julia was silent. When we reached Caesar’s box with its wine-colored awnings and wide silk couches, she purposefully sat between me and Marcellus, turning her back to me to ask him, “So who will you bet on?”

“We can place bets on gladiators?” Alexander asked.

“Sure,” Marcellus said. Then he amended, “Of course, there’s no method to it. Not like what you’ve shown me with the horses. You simply pick a number—fifty, thirty-three—and if that gladiator survives, you win.”

“Are there odds?”

“Alexander!” I said sharply. “You can’t bet on men’s lives.”

“I bet on them in the Circus.”

“Those are just chariots.”

Alexander looked abashed. “Come on, Selene. If I win, I’ll give you the winnings for your home.”

“What home?” Julia asked.

“Her foundling home,” Marcellus replied, but not so loudly that Octavian, on the couch next to us, could hear.

Julia stared at me. “I didn’t know about this.”

“It’s nothing,” I said quickly.

“Marcellus knows about it.”

“Because he saw the sketch. It’s just a place I imagined.”

“For foundlings,” Marcellus explained. “She’s interested in charity, like my mother.”

“How nice,” Julia said, but her tone implied otherwise.

“It probably won’t come to anything,” I said.

Julia folded her arms across her chest. “Why not?”

“Because who would build a home for foundlings? And why would anyone listen to me?”

“I might,” she said pointedly, and most likely for Marcellus’s benefit, “if I were Caesar’s wife.”

I was silent.

“You have such a very kind heart, Selene. I wish I were so good.” But I could see that she didn’t. She was content to eat ofellae during executions and step over wailing infants so long as Marcellus didn’t think she was callous. And although Marcellus would never criticize her, she couldn’t bear it when he praised me. “So are you betting?” she asked.

I shook my head. “If Alexander wishes to bet on death, then he can.”

“Really?” My brother leaned back on the couch so he could see around Marcellus and Julia. “You won’t be upset?”

I refused to answer him.

“Oh, they’re going to die anyway,” Julia said.

“And betting on it won’t make a difference,” Alexander pointed out.

The bet-maker appeared, and from her couch in front of us, Livia said gleefully, “Twenty denarii on the first gladiator.”

“To live or die, Domina?”

“Die,” she said, and next to her, Octavian passed the man a heavy purse.

“And for you, Domina?”

Octavia considered. “The first five gladiators.”

“Living or dead?”

“Living,” Octavia said pointedly, and her brother smiled.