Cleopatra’s Daughter

“And Horatia’s child?” Julia whispered.

“It was a girl,” Octavian said simply. “The incident was an unlucky beginning to Saturnalia. But I plan to end this night with good news.”

I couldn’t imagine what kind of news could dispel the unhappiness that had settled over the library, but when Octavian looked to Agrippa, his general announced, “I am getting married.”

Julia gasped, and I wondered if she feared that she might be the bride. “To whom?” she ventured.

“My daughter Claudia,” Octavia said.

“My sister?” Marcellus exclaimed. He looked at his mother. “How come I didn’t know about this?”

Octavia smiled primly. “Well, now you do.”

For the rest of Saturnalia, Julia kept a vigil for Horatia’s daughter, going every day to the Columna Lactaria to search for her. For seven days we battled the wind and rain, holding each other on the slick cobblestones while Juba and the Praetorian shone the light of their bronze lanterns on the empty streets. But on the eighth day, Gallia demanded to know what Julia would do if she found the infant.

“I would bring her home!”

“What? To your father’s villa?” Marcellus asked. “Be sensible, Julia. Someone has taken her.”

“But who?” she shouted, and her voice echoed across the icy courtyard. The marketplace was closed for the last day of Saturnalia, and anyone with good judgment was at home, hunched in front of a brazier, cooking lamb in the kitchens and drinking hot wine.

“It might have been a well-meaning citizen,” Alexander said.

“But what if it was the owner of a lupanar?”

“Well, there’s no way of knowing which it is,” Juba said. “No one’s going to return her now.”

Julia stared at the column where thousands of women had left their infants over the years. The courtyard was silent.

“The rain is about to come,” Juba remarked.

We followed him back to the waiting carriage, and inside, Julia fretted over the night we had visited Pollio. “I should have taken Gaia from the midwife.”

“And what would you have done with her, Domina?”

“Found her a home!”

“With whom?” Marcellus asked. “Where?”

Julia looked at Juba. “What do you think has happened to her?” I knew why she was asking him. Of everyone in the carriage, he would give the answer that would come closest to the truth.

“A freedman found her and took her home.”

“But how do you know?”

“Because no patricians live near the markets or would ever want to be caught there at night.”

“But what if it was a freedman with a lupanar?”

“Don’t you think it’s more likely that men of that sort were indoors, celebrating the first night of Saturnalia?” he asked. “Not standing in an abandoned marketplace waiting for foundlings, when those can be had any other day of the week.”

This settled Julia’s mind a little. But even when Alexander and I turned twelve on the first day of the New Year, she was quiet during Octavia’s celebration of our dies natalis.

“Tomorrow,” Octavia offered her kindly, “why don’t you come and help me prepare for Claudia’s wedding?”

Julia looked up from the crackling brazier, where cinnamon sticks burned among the charcoal to scent the triclinium. “What about your slaves?”

“Oh, they can do the tedious work. The cleaning, the cooking. But who will help me with the tunic and veil? There are only two weeks before my daughters come home from Pompeii and Claudia marries.”

So through the miserable month of January, while ice still covered the fountains and Octavian wrapped himself in furs, Julia helped Octavia prepare. On the way to and from the ludus, she told us about the jewels Claudia would be wearing, what her sandals would look like, and how her carriage would be decorated for her trip to Rome. But when I asked her why Octavia’s eldest daughters were living so far away, she looked from me to Alexander and hesitated.

“You can tell them,” Tiberius said on our way back from the ludus. “It’s not as though it’s their fault.”

Julia nodded uncertainly. “Octavia had to give them away in order to marry Antony. Then, when Antony left her, Claudia and Marcella chose to remain with their aunt in Pompeii.”

I was quiet for a moment. After all of the unhappiness my mother and father had brought into her life, it was surprising that Octavia treated us with any kindness at all.

My brother shook his head. “I have no idea why your mother treats us so well.”

“She loves children,” Marcellus said simply. “Wait until you meet my older sisters. We’re all very similar.”

“You mean they gamble?” Tiberius asked.

“He means they’re both blond with blue eyes,” Julia said, ignoring Tiberius’s quip. “They’re his only full sisters.” She turned to me and added brightly, “You should help us with the planning.”

“Oh yes,” Marcellus said. “It’s so much fun. Much better than watching the races, which is what we could be doing.”

Julia swatted him. “Alexander enjoys it.”

“Because he likes you girls. I can’t stand all the talk of hairnets and paint.”

“Come help us,” she begged me. “Vitruvius doesn’t need you every day.”

“He probably doesn’t need me at all.”

“Nonsense,” my brother said as we walked. Across the courtyard, Gallia and Juba were waiting for us, bundled into their warmest winter cloaks. “Just yesterday,” Alexander boasted, “he told her that when the weather turns, he’ll be taking her with him on his inspections.”

“A girl?” Tiberius cried.

“What does that matter?” Julia retorted.

“What business does a girl have with construction? Look at her! She can’t even lift a brick.”

“I can take measurements,” I said sharply. “And I can sketch a design for the flooring or the rooftop better than any of Vitruvius’s old men.”

Tiberius laughed. “So what is Vitruvius going to do? Introduce you as his apprentice?”

“I’ll be going in the mornings before the builders get to work.”

He smiled. “So he is ashamed.”

“Leave her alone,” Marcellus warned.

“Does that mean you won’t help us?” Julia pouted.

“Yes,” I said firmly.

By the time we arrived home on the Palatine, half a dozen litters crowded the portico of Octavia’s villa.

“The priestesses are here,” Gallia warned. “Be silent when you enter.”

Juba and Tiberius followed us into the atrium, where the priestesses of Juno had arranged themselves around a brazier. Octavia held an unfurled scroll above the flames, while Agrippa fanned the fire with his hand.

“What are they doing?” I whispered.

Julia leaned over so that her lips were at my ear. “The scroll Octavia is holding is a calendar. When the priestesses decide there has been enough smoke, they will interpret the burn marks and determine which days are dies nefasti.”

I drew away from her. “Bad-luck days?”

“March, May, and all of June are unsuitable for weddings. So are the Kalends, the Nones, and the Ides of any month, and any day following those. And no one can be married on the day of any religious festival.”

“Is it really bad luck?”

She rolled her eyes. We listened as the priestesses chanted to Juno, the goddess of motherhood and marriage. Octavian, holding a wax tablet and a stylus, stood next to his sister. He was wearing a heavy fur cloak that was too big around his shoulders. I could see that he was bitterly cold, keeping away from the open roof,