Cleopatra’s Daughter

decision to follow my father to Alexandria. I watched as Jullus tilted his head back with laughter and the golden hair tumbled over his ears—just like Antyllus and Ptolemy. I felt an instant connection to him that I had never felt toward Antonia or her sister. Perhaps it was because I had never had sisters, only brothers. “I wish I could meet him.”

“Not possible,” Gallia warned sternly. “You do not want Caesar to think the Antonii are rising again. Better to watch him from afar.”

“Like Scribonia watches Julia?”

Gallia nodded sadly. “Yes.”

There was a great roar of disapproval from below, and then suddenly everyone was standing. “What’s happening?” I cried.

A Praetorian turned to me. “One of the gladiators has been wounded.”

“Many have been wounded,” Gallia remarked.

“But this man is a favorite. He has survived combat for three days, and now Charon is coming with his mallet.”

“They will kill a favorite even if he might live?”

“He’s been wounded, Princess. His eyes are closed. It doesn’t matter to Charon if a physician might save him.”

Although the amphitheater seats rose in tiers, I couldn’t see anything above the heads of the people in front of me. I was too small, and there were too many of them standing on their seats. Perhaps it was better. I could hear the crowd’s sharp intake of breath as the mallet shattered the gladiator’s skull, and Antonia’s shriek pierced the sudden silence that had descended over the amphitheater. Octavia rushed to calm her, but she wouldn’t be calmed. Her shrieking continued, until Marcellus placed his hand over her mouth. “Be quiet!”

Octavian rose. “I am done for today.”

“I’m sorry,” Octavia said. “She’s afraid.”

“She should be,” he said angrily. “There will be no more of Hermes and Charon! Agrippa, you will inform them.”

“Then how will the battles end?” Marcellus asked.

“When one gladiator is too tired or too injured to fight.” Octavian turned to Antonia and held up her chin, wiping the tears from her eyes. “No more death,” he promised, though when the bet-maker returned with various winnings, I noticed that Octavian didn’t refuse to accept his.

Inside Octavia’s villa, Alexander handed his heavy purse to me. “For your foundlings,” he said quietly.

I placed the purse inside the metal chest Octavia had recently given to us, and Alexander locked the chest with the key he wore next to his bulla. Marcellus and Julia stood at the door, waiting for us to join them.

“Come,” Marcellus urged. “We can watch the races from my uncle’s platform.”

“But won’t he be angry?” Alexander asked. “He said he was done for the day.”

“He was only upset that he will have to pay the lanistae three hundred denarii,” Julia said wryly.

“What is a lanista?” Alexander asked.

“You know,” Marcellus prompted, “one of the men who own the gladiators. When a gladiator dies, the sponsor of the event has to pay the lanistam for his loss. The Ludi Romani are always sponsored by Caesar, and popular gladiators are worth more.”

“So that means my father will have to pay three hundred denarii just for one man. By banishing Hermes and Charon, he won’t have to pay the lanistae anything.” Julia smiled. “You didn’t think he did it for poor little Antonia, did you?”

The Ludi went on for fourteen more days, and by September nineteenth, no one wanted to return to Magister Verrius and our studies. Marcellus pleaded with Octavia to let us have one more day, but her answer was firm.

“Your uncle’s dies natalis is in six days, and there will be two days off for celebration. I believe that is enough.” Octavia walked us onto the portico, where Juba and Gallia were already waiting. “Do you celebrate birth days in Egypt?” she asked.

“No,” Alexander replied. “But our father sometimes brought us presents.”

Octavia pressed her lips together, perhaps thinking of the gifts her daughters had never received because their father was with us in Alexandria.

“They were always small presents,” I added swiftly. “Of little importance.”

“At least he remembered,” Octavia said quietly.

I scowled at Alexander, who understood what he had done. “He never spent much time with us anyway,” he said. “Even if it was our dies natalis.”

Octavia smiled, but it was bitter. I could feel her watching us as we disappeared down the Palatine. When we reached the Forum, Magister Verrius greeted us at the door of the ludus.

“Enjoy yourselves,” Juba said merrily, and I imagine that Magister Verrius understood what we were feeling, since the next few days were full of games. There was a contest to see who could memorize the longest passage of Euripides, and a game testing our knowledge of the Muses—both of which I won. But Tiberius had memorized the longest passages of both Ennius and Terence, Romans whose works I couldn’t be bothered with. By the end of September, our games were over, and Magister Verrius was determined to introduce us to rhetoric, the art of public speaking. Marcellus sighed audibly, and Julia sank lower in her seat.

“Today, I would like you to spend time outside the Senate, listening to the lawyers debate.” When Julia groaned, Magister Verrius ignored her. “You will follow a trial until its end, and you may not choose a trial that ends today.”

“What a waste of time,” Julia said angrily as we walked toward the Campus Martius. Juba and Gallia remained several paces behind. She turned around and glared at them. “Do you think they might lie for us and pretend that we’ve gone?”

“What?” Marcellus asked. “And we’d make up a trial?”

“Well, when are we supposed to watch one?” she demanded.

“We’re going to have to forget the Circus,” he said. “At least for a week.”

“He didn’t say how long the trial had to be. We can choose one that ends tomorrow.”

Marcellus gave Julia a long look. “And be told to do it all over again?”

Julia turned to me. “I don’t know how you stand it. Working with Vitruvius from the break of dawn and studying Magister Verrius’s work all day.”

“She likes it,” Tiberius responded on my behalf. “Some people actually enjoy learning.”

“But why? All Vitruvius teaches you is measurements.”

“Measurements to construct a building,” I replied. “He took me to the Temple of Apollo yesterday. It’s almost finished.”

“Really?” Marcellus took a shortcut across the Campus Martius. “What’s inside?”

“A library with gold and ivory paneling. And a statue of the god sculpted by Scopas.”

“Did Juba find it?” Marcellus asked.

I shrugged. “That’s what Vitruvius says.” In the distance, I could see Livia and Octavia on the shaded portico of the stables, both weaving on their wooden looms and sitting as far apart as decorum would allow. When we reached the portico, Octavia stood.

“Juba.” She smiled. “Gallia. Thank you both for bringing them safely. Are all of my children behaving themselves?”

“Aside from the complaining?” Juba said. “Yes.”

“You would complain, too, if you had to go to school while everyone else was on vacation,” Marcellus grumbled.

“Ah, the terrible price of being heir,” Juba said.

“He is not heir yet,” Livia snapped.

“Forgive me. Possible heir.”

“We all know Octavian wants Marcellus,” Tiberius retorted. “So why keep pretending?”