opposite ends of Rome’s vast territories. He was watching me with the light amber eyes the two of us shared, and their expression was anxious. “He didn’t. Marcellus just elbowed me in the side and said, ‘You know.’ Is it possible he was the bowman, Selene?”
I thought back to the afternoon when the bull had been charging us and I had caught only the briefest glimpse of a man on a balcony. “His hair was golden. But I was too far away to see his face.”
“Well, what if his performance in the ludus is just an act? What if he’s smarter than any of us give him credit for?”
I thought of Marcellus—laughing, silly, always quick with a jibe—and shook my head. “He’s brash enough for it. But you’ve seen his writing in the ludus, Alexander. It can’t be him.”
“Handwriting can be disguised.”
“But you’re forgetting that there’s Magister Verrius as well. They both have the same light hair and eyes.”
“Except Magister Verrius wasn’t the one who went missing.”
“How do you know? He could have left the ludus as soon as we did.” We stared at each other in the lamplight. “Magister Verrius or Marcellus,” I said, “Julia has all but given him away.”
“What do you think Octavian would do if it was Marcellus?”
Fear, as cold as ice, traveled down my spine. “He would kill him,” I said with certainty.
My brother closed his eyes. “You need to speak with her.” He looked at me, and his gaze became intense. “She needs to understand what she’s done.”
As a reward for the information Julia had given him, Octavian allowed silks of every color to be brought to the Palatine, fresh from the barges of Ostia. Julia directed the merchants to Octavia’s atrium, where Livia couldn’t spoil the fun. But before she could begin choosing, I pulled her aside and whispered harshly, “I hope you understand what these silks cost.”
Her black eyes widened innocently. “I only told him the truth. You saw him, too. He was probably a slave. He had hair like every other German or Gaul.”
“With access to the Palatine, and Capri, and rich enough to keep apartments across Rome? What slave do you know who has that kind of wealth?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re not that foolish,” I said cruelly. “Of course you do. There are only two men on the Palatine who fit that description. Magister Verrius and Marcellus.”
She blinked slowly, as if considering it for the first time. Then her eyes filled with tears. “No … It can’t be.”
“Why not? Yesterday, while we were in the Forum Boarium, Marcellus disappeared from the Circus, and the gods only know where Magister Verrius was.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “My father would never suspect them—”
“Of course he would. And even if he didn’t, then Juba would. He was there when Marcellus left and even he couldn’t find him. And Juba reports everything to your father.”
“No.” She backed away from me. “It can’t be Marcellus. Why wouldn’t he tell me?”
I raised my brows, given what she’d already done.
She panicked. “But what does he care about slaves? He likes to gamble on horses and have fun.”
“What about the Temple of Isis?” I challenged. “He cared about those slaves.”
“Because they happened to cross paths! He’s rash and foolish.”
“And idealistic,” I reminded her.
“Why, Selene?” The distress on her face was real, and I almost felt sorry for her. “Why did I have to tell my father?”
“Whatever you do, keep your silence from now on.”
“But what if it’s too late?”
We both looked across the atrium, to where Octavia and Claudia were marveling over the different silks. Neither of them appeared worried. “We would know if Marcellus were being accused.”
But when the festival of Liberalia came, I wondered whether I was wrong. Octavian was an actor. If he wanted to hide his suspicions from his sister, how hard would it be? He appeared in time for Marcellus’s dedication and seemed to be enjoying himself. He even led the way to the lararium, where Marcellus took off his
Julia was dressed in a silk tunic of the deepest red, and her hair was arranged in a golden net sewn with seed pearls. But even though Marcellus couldn’t keep his eyes off of her, she was pale with worry. “What’s the matter with my father?” she whispered. “Why is he so interested in Tiberius suddenly?”
I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to guess.
“You don’t think—?”
I put a finger to my lips. “Not here.” I held up my green tunic to keep the hem from getting dirty as we walked, and I shivered in the cool March wind.
“Would you like my cloak?” Marcellus offered.
“Alexander is carrying one for me.”
“Well, perhaps you should put it on. There are bumps up and down your arms.”
I felt embarrassed that he had noticed such an intimate thing. My brother handed me my cloak. We had purchased enough cloth from the merchants of Ostia to outfit a garrison, and Marcellus smiled when he saw me in my new silk. “Very handsome.”
“Julia’s cloak is new as well,” my brother pointed out.
I glared at him.
“The Princesses of the Palatine,” Marcellus flattered. “And what more fitting tribute to a pair of princesses than Liberalia?”
He was joking, of course. As we reached the bottom of the Palatine, a procession of boys passed by pulling a cart with a towering statue of a phallus.
“What is that?” I cried.
“Haven’t you ever seen one?” Tiberius asked snidely.
“The boys are the Salii,” Julia said, ignoring him. “Liberalia is a fertility festival.”
“Like Bacchanalia back home,” my brother prompted.
“But what are they singing?”
“No one knows,” Marcellus said delightedly. “The song is so old that the meaning has been forgotten.”
The young Salii were wearing the sort of bronze breastplates and shields that even Juba, who dealt in antiques, would have considered extremely old. No one had fought in such outfits for centuries, and I wondered how the boys could even walk. As the stone phallus rolled by on its cart, women tossed rose petals in the air, clapping and cheering as if the statue were the fertility god himself. Octavian had forbidden us from the festivities of Liberalia the previous March, telling us that we had only a few years to study in the ludus and the rest of our lives to celebrate Liber Pater and his splendid endowment. Now I saw what he meant. When we reached the Capitol, a second giant phallus had been decorated with flowers and mounted on the Tarpeian Rock. Julia giggled, and Marcellus asked my brother what he thought it would be like to have a pair of
“Painful,” he replied.
“Not as painful as what’s about to happen.” Marcellus heaved a sigh. “Welcome to the Tabularium.”
The Tabularium was a solemn place, with a facade of peperino and travertine blocks masking a stark interior of concrete vaults. It was the Hall of Records where Marcellus and Tiberius would proudly register themselves as citizens, but none of the men who passed us smiled. Liberalia meant nothing to them down here, where Rome’s scrolls were guarded like gold and the sun never penetrated its labyrinth of vaults. An old man in a toga took us into a chamber where the names of the most important clans in Rome were etched into the walls. He fetched the scrolls of the clans Julii and Claudii, and we waited in the dimly lit space while Marcellus and Tiberius read the names of the men who had come before them. A reed pen and ink were produced, and the old record keeper instructed each
