Cleopatra’s Daughter

Julia laughed. “He looks like Agrippa, doesn’t he?”

The round marble face and short, cropped hair did look a little like him. “He must be a very loyal man,” I remarked. “All of this time your father has been gone, and he’s never once betrayed him in the Senate.”

“Agrippa would lay down his life for my father. His eldest brother chose the wrong side in the war against Julius Caesar. He fought alongside Cato, if you can imagine, and when Cato was defeated, Julius Caesar took Agrippa’s brother as a prisoner. It was my father who intervened and saved his life, so Agrippa feels as though he owes him,” Julia said. “Sometimes, he comes to our villa just to check on Drusus and me. Of course, there’s the Praetorian Guard to watch over us, but he comes anyway.” She lowered her voice. “And he never betrayed me that night in the Circus.”

I paused. “What night?”

“When my father went searching through Marcellus’s room thinking he was the Red Eagle! Agrippa found us renting a room near the fornices and never told my father that I was there as well.”

There was a sudden pressure on my chest so hard that it hurt to breathe. “You’re the one Marcellus was sneaking out to meet?”

Julia giggled. “Didn’t your brother tell you?”

“No!”

“Well, you should talk to him more often.”

When we returned to the Palatine, I stormed into my chamber, startling Lucius and Alexander at their work.

“What’s the matter?” my brother asked. “Shopping didn’t go well?”

“You lied to me!”

He scrambled to a seated position on the couch, scattering his scrolls from the ludus. “About what?”

“You never told me Marcellus was meeting with Julia in the fornices!”

“I just found out! Julia only told me a few weeks ago.”

“Weeks?” I cried. “And were you ever going to tell me?”

“He was waiting for the right time.”

I glared at Lucius. “So you know about this as well? My brother tells you everything, but keeps his own twin in the dark?”

“It wasn’t meant to be that way,” Alexander argued.

“Then how was it meant to be?”

Alexander moved across the room and shut the door. “He was meeting with her. I knew it would hurt you and I didn’t want to see you upset.”

“So better to see me embarrassed,” I said heatedly. “Better that I learn about it while shopping in the Forum!” Then another thought occurred to me. “So Marcellus isn’t the Red Eagle.”

“It’s still possible,” my brother said. “Haven’t you noticed that since he’s been gone, not a single actum has been put up?”

“It could also mean the rebel is smart enough to make it look like him.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

“I’m sorry, Selene,” my brother said quietly.

“I wonder how long they’ve been—”

“Only a few months before he left,” he assured me. “Before then, he was seeing a lupa.”

I gasped.

“Everyone’s done it.”

“Have you?” I challenged.

“Of course not me!” He glanced at Lucius. “I mean everyone else.”

I seated myself and closed my eyes, wishing that if I kept them shut, I would never have to see Alexander, or Lucius, or Marcellus’s bright face when he returned and whispered into Julia’s ear.

Lucius perched himself on the arm of my chair, and I opened my eyes. “Come with us to the odeum today,” he said.

“Yes,” Alexander replied. “You never come. And you’re the one who professes to like poetry.” Since Lucius had moved into Octavia’s villa, my brother had begun going with him to the local odea. The little covered theaters hosted musical competitions and poetry readings. And since Marcellus had left, my brother was visiting the odea even more frequently than the Circus. “Come on,” Alexander pleaded. “The one on the Campus is the prettiest little theater you’ve ever seen.”

“It might even give you some ideas,” Lucius prompted.

“Ovid is going to be there,” my brother said temptingly.

“And who is Ovid?”

Alexander and Lucius looked at each other. “Just the greatest young poet in Rome!” Lucius cried. “Come with us!” He took my arm, and I allowed myself to be led to the Campus Martius, where a small stone building welcomed visitors with a handsome mosaic and an ivy-covered arch. Because it was nearly Saturnalia, a green and saffron canopy fluttered over the crossbeams, invoking the colors of fertility and protecting the patrons from the December drizzle. Two men of the Praetorian Guard took seats behind us, and Alexander explained what was about to happen.

“Today is for poetry,” he said. “You see the young man with the red cheeks waiting to go on stage? That’s Ovid.”

“How old is he?” I exclaimed.

“Sixteen.”

“And his family lets him perform?”

“Not everyone’s father refuses to acknowledge the value of literature,” Lucius said.

“What about Horace and Vergil?” I asked.

Alexander wrinkled his nose. “Augustus owns them. All they write is politics now. Ovid writes about what’s real.”

When I frowned, Lucius said, “Love,” then added quickly, “and love’s pain.”

I crossed my arms. “And you think I want to hear about love’s pain?”

“Shh,” Alexander said. “Just listen.”

Ovid took the stage, and immediately the patrons of the Odeum hushed. This was not like Octavian’s theater performances, where men stood from their seats and threw dates at the actors and chanted, “Bring on the bear.” The audience was composed mostly of young men. A few women sat with their friends, giggling and pointing, but everyone grew silent when Ovid declared, “I call this ‘Disappointment.’”

Several men chuckled.

“Why is that funny?” I whispered.

“Because he’s always talking about his triumphs,” my brother said.

Then Ovid began:

But oh, I suppose she was ugly; she wasn’t elegant;

I hadn’t yearned for her often in my prayers.

Yet holding her I was limp, and nothing happened at all:

I just lay there, a disgraceful load for her bed.

I wanted it, she did too; and yet no pleasure came

from the part of my sluggish loins that should bring joy.

The girl entwined her ivory arms around my neck