Cleopatra’s Daughter

of them to sign at the bottom of his clan’s list. By the time we emerged into the sunshine, even Octavian had had enough of the gloom.

“I should build a more cheerful office for them,” he mused. “Would you like to make that your first contribution to Rome, Tiberius? I will gift you the denarii to rebuild the Tabularium.”

Tiberius was genuinely grateful. “I would like that very much.”

Julia returned my panicked look. Then Octavian approached Marcellus and clapped him heartily on the back. “And what about you? What will be your first contribution to Rome?”

“How about a new Circus?” Marcellus asked eagerly.

Tiberius laughed. “Don’t you think you gamble enough?”

Octavian was displeased. “Perhaps there is something else you would prefer.”

Marcellus looked desperately from his mother to his uncle, considering their passions. “What about a theater?”

Octavian smiled. “Better.”

Tiberius clenched his jaw, and I saw Marcellus exhale.

“The Theater of Marcellus. That shall be my gift to you.”

“And Selene can design it!”

Everyone turned. I held my breath while Octavian regarded me with his inscrutable gray eyes. “How old are you now?” he asked suddenly.

“My brother and I are thirteen.”

“A very mature thirteen,” Octavia put in. “She designed the mosaic floor in the Temple of Apollo, and Vitruvius has her working on the Pantheon.”

Octavian shaded his eyes with his hand. “So why didn’t Vitruvius tell this to me?”

“Because she’s a girl,” Livia said, “and her place is at the loom.”

“It’s a beautiful mosaic,” Octavia retorted. “Girl or no, her skills are useful to him.”

Octavian considered this. “Where is he today?”

“Working on the Pantheon,” she told him. “After that it will be the Basilica of Neptune, the Saepta Julia, your mausoleum, and my portico.”

Octavian turned his attention back to me. “When do you come up with these designs?” he asked curiously.

“In the morning, before ludus. Vitruvius takes me with him sometimes.”

Octavian seemed to find this funny. “And what do you do?”

“Measurements,” I said firmly, refusing to let him dismiss my work. “I’ve also laid tiles.”

“What?” Livia sneered. “Like a mosaicist?”

“Yes. If the mosaicist needs help or direction. I also want to learn for myself.”

Octavian regarded me for a moment. “A princess who doesn’t mind work.” He looked meaningfully at both Marcellus and Julia. “Something my own family can learn from.” There was an uncomfortable silence before he added, “It sounds like Vitruvius is busy enough with his projects. If he wishes you to help with my nephew’s theater, I see no problem with that.”

Livia’s mouth worked into a tense line, but Marcellus smiled triumphantly at me. On our walk to the Forum, where he and Tiberius would exchange their boyhood togas for the white toga virilis, he whispered, “That was very well done.”

“What?” I asked guilelessly.

“Your talk of laying tiles. My uncle tends to keep people around him who are useful.”

“So you’ve said. And what about you?”

Around us, flutists played, and children sang songs to Liber Pater and his consort Libera, whose blessings would make them fertile once they were married. In Alexandria, we knew Liber Pater as Bacchus, though I had never seen so many garlanded phalluses even in Bacchus’s temple. Marcellus smiled conspiratorially at me, a flash of white teeth in a handsomely tanned face. “I’m his sister’s son. The heir and the spare”—he glanced at Tiberius —“remember?”

Tiberius leaned over my shoulder and said softly, “Be careful. Your secrets are making Julia jealous.”

I saw Marcellus tense, and when I looked behind me, Julia’s eyes were hard as stone. That evening in the triclinium, she wanted to know what we’d been whispering about.

“Who your father will make his heir,” I replied.

A harpist began to play, for wealthy patricians and their young wives had come to celebrate the heir and the spare’s coming-of-age. Julia moved closer to me on our dining couch. “And do you think my father suspects Marcellus?”

“He’s giving him the denarii to build a theater. How suspicious could he be?”

She nodded slowly. “So you weren’t talking about the Red Eagle?”

I sat back. “Why wouldn’t I tell you?”

“Maybe you think I’m not trustworthy anymore.”

“If Marcellus ever said anything to me, you’d be the first to know.”

She watched me suspiciously. “My father is a very good actor,” she said. “I’ve seen him lie to Livia as if his words were pure as gold.”

“I’m not lying,” I swore. “I would tell you if I heard anything. Haven’t you asked Marcellus yourself?”

“Of course. He always denies it.”

“Well, Marcellus never confides in me,” I said glumly. “He talks to Alexander.”

This settled her a little. “Just because my father was being generous today doesn’t mean he isn’t suspicious,” she admitted, toying with her food. I had seen Julia lose her appetite only once before. “Do you know what they call understudies on the stage?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “Shadows. And if my father has even the slightest suspicion that Marcellus isn’t shadowing him, that will be the end. I will marry Tiberius, whether he’s my stepbrother or not, and Marcellus will disappear.” I realized she wasn’t angry with me so much as she was angry with herself, and her eyes gleamed with tears.

“Perhaps he isn’t the Red Eagle,” I said hopefully.

But Julia simply looked toward her father and didn’t reply.

In the hour before dawn, shouting echoed in the atrium, then the sound of hobnailed boots filled the halls. For a moment, I was in Egypt again, huddled with my brothers on my mother’s bed on the day of her death.

“Alexander!” I pushed away my covers.

He jumped up. As we rushed to put on our cloaks, I could hear Marcellus’s raised voice in the hall. Alexander flung open the door. Octavia, Vitruvius, Marcellus, and his sisters were standing in a circle outside Marcellus’s chamber, watching the soldiers move in and out of the room. When Marcellus saw us, his face lost its color.

Agrippa was there. “We found him at the Circus,” he said. “In the fornices.”

Octavia covered her mouth with her hand.

“It’s not what you think!” Marcellus protested.

“So then what were you doing?” Octavian emerged from Marcellus’s chamber, and his look was violent. “Not writing acta, I hope.”

Marcellus stepped back. “Is that what this is about? You think I’m the Red Eagle?” I could see he wanted to laugh, and might have if the accusation hadn’t been so serious. “Because I leave at night to visit a few lupae, you think I’m a traitor?”

Octavia shrieked, “You were visiting dirty lupae?”

Vitruvius put a calming hand on her arm. “Every boy has been there.”

“Not the heir of Rome!” Octavian shouted.

Juba appeared from Marcellus’s chamber, wiping his hands on his tunic.

“What did you find?” Octavian demanded.

“Just a few lewd paintings.”

“I told you!” Marcellus cried. “You’ve seen my work in the ludus. Do you think I could really be responsible for the acta? I don’t have the patience!”

Octavian considered this. “Perhaps you are too secure in the belief that you will be my heir. Remember, Marcellus, I loved Fidelius as well,” he said, reminding him of the young soldier he had killed outside the walls of