Cleopatra’s Daughter

stand in front of them so I could see what was happening. If a foreigner to the city had looked out over the handsomely dressed crowd of senators and their fur-cloaked wives, he would have thought he’d happened upon a theatrical performance. But the danger to Tullia’s life was real, and I wondered whether somewhere in the crowd, the Red Eagle was listening to her lawyer as he tried to persuade the judices of her freeborn birth.

“I have brought before you the maiden’s mother, her father, two aunts, and an uncle who all swear before Juno that she is the daughter of centurion Calpurnius Commodus,” Tullia’s lawyer was saying. “Only purchased women have sworn that she is Aquila’s slave. Whom will you believe?” he demanded. “Citizens of Rome, or slaves?”

“Correct me if I am wrong,” Aquila’s lawyer retorted, “but I believe you produced slaves as witnesses as well.”

“With citizens! Where are your citizens?” Tullia’s lawyer challenged. “Not a single pleb has come forward to vouch for Aquila’s lies. Why is that?” The crowd began to hiss. “Perhaps Aquila spent all his denarii,” he speculated, “paying off other people.” He looked piercingly at the judices—a warning to them that if Aquila’s gold was in their pockets, they had better beware.

The crowd raised fists of anger, shouting threats to the seated men in togas. I saw Aquila flinch as someone hurled a lettuce from the crowd and one of the judices was hit on the head. The judex rose in a fury, turning to the spectators. “Since you cannot behave yourselves, we are done for the day. Trial will resume tomorrow!”

There was near mutiny.

“Can he do that?” Alexander exclaimed.

“Any of the judices can stop the trial,” Magister Verrius said. “I suspect they will deliver a verdict in the morning.”

“And will we come to see it?” Julia asked.

Magister Verrius looked at Octavia. She surveyed the madness, and two small lines appeared between her brows. “Only with an escort of the Praetorian Guard. This courtyard will not be safe if the judices determine that Tullia was a slave.”

As we returned to the Palatine, I asked Magister Verrius who he believed the Red Eagle might be. For once, Julia stopped complaining about her hunger and listened. Even Alexander and Lucius were attentive.

“Someone wealthy, with a personal interest in slavery and the education to write eloquently about it.”

“And someone who is willing to risk death by crucifixion if he’s caught,” Octavia added.

“When he’s caught,” Agrippa said sternly. “And it will be only a matter of time. A priest will see him posting one of his acta and think of the five-thousand-denarii reward. Or perhaps it will be a passing slave, or a young matron with seven children to feed. There are many people in Rome whose lives could be changed by five thousand denarii.”

“And what would he be crucified for?” I asked.

“Inciting rebellion,” Agrippa answered swiftly. “Disturbing the lives of good citizens of Rome and provoking assassination.”

“I thought the kitchen boy had nothing to do with the Red Eagle,” my brother said.

“There are men who will take secrets with them to their graves, no matter the cost,” Agrippa replied. “He could have known the Red Eagle personally.”

But I didn’t believe it. Faced with the most terrible kinds of torture, what man wouldn’t speak to save his skin?

For the rest of the afternoon, the Red Eagle was all anyone wanted to talk about. And that evening, in Octavia’s triclinium, Julia whispered, “Perhaps he’ll slit Aquila’s throat in the night and the trial will end.”

“But has he ever killed before?” Alexander asked.

“Of course. Dozens of times,” Julia told him.

“How do you know?”

“Well, how else has he posted so many acta without a single person fingering him? He must kill his witnesses.”

“Perhaps he uses disguises,” I suggested. “Or goes in the night when everyone is sleeping.”

Julia tilted her head at me. “Have you seen these streets at night? Julius Caesar forbade traffic from entering Rome during the day. As soon as the sun sets, there are thousands of merchants on the streets. Not to mention cutthroats and lupae.”

“But what would they be doing at the temples?” I argued. “They’d be in the Forum, where the shops are.”

“The Temple of Venus Genetrix is in the Forum,” Lucius pointed out. “And he’s posted there.”

“Then perhaps he goes in the guise of a merchant,” my brother said.

We argued about it until Octavia determined it was time for us to retire to our chambers. Then Lucius followed us into our room and reclined on the same couch where Marcellus used to lie, the couch meant for Ptolemy. “It’s better that we went to the trial today,” he said. “I don’t think there’s anyone in Rome who believes that Tullia was a slave.”

“If the judices decide otherwise, there will be riots,” I predicted.

“Julia should like that,” Lucius remarked.

“She likes anything so long as there’s action,” my brother said. “It has to be lonely in her father’s house with only Drusus to talk to.”

“And now, only the slaves,” Lucius remarked. “When do you think they’ll be coming home?”

“Months yet,” Alexander replied. “Maybe even years.”

“But Marcellus might return before Augustus,” I said hopefully. “He’s not a seasoned soldier. There’s no reason for Augustus to keep him there so long.”

From my lips to Isis’s ears. In two days, my second plea was answered. First, the Red Eagle had returned to Rome. Then, before the sun even peeked through the slats of my shutters, there was a clamor in the atrium; laughter and shouts of tremendous joy.

My brother sat up on his couch and looked at me.

“They’ve returned!” I shouted. I threw off my covers and dressed as quickly as possible. I didn’t bother with my hair and my tunic was a mess, but when I flung open the door and saw Marcellus, I regretted not taking more time with my appearance. The eleven months he’d been away had turned him into a man. He was taller than I remembered, with broader shoulders and a leaner jaw. He looked well fed and rested, and he was dressed in a soldier’s scarlet cloak and nail-studded boots. Antonia and Tonia were both laughing, touching the hunting horn that hung from a strap across his chest and pointing to the double-edged sword at his side. Octavia beamed with pride, and Vitruvius could not have looked happier if Marcellus had been his own son.

Marcellus grinned when he saw me. He crossed the atrium with open arms. “Selene.” I let him take me to his chest and inhaled the scent of rain and leather from his muscled cuirass. “Look at you,” he said, pulling away. “A woman now.”

I’m sure I blushed, and I was thankful that the room was lit only by oil lamps. “Eleven months is a long time to be gone,” I replied. “You’ve changed as well.”

“Really?”

“Of course! Don’t you see it?” Antonia asked. “Your hair is longer.”

“And your feet are bigger!” Tonia exclaimed.

Marcellus laughed. “Well, if you think I’ve grown, you should see Tiberius.”

“He’s come home with you?” I frowned.

“Along with Juba. Augustus and Livia plan to remain until the rebellion in Gaul and the war in Cantabria are finished.”

“But that could be years,” Octavia worried.

“Or just a few months. Most of the Gallic rebellions have been crushed. It’s just a matter of Iberia now.” Marcellus saw my brother and smiled. “Alexander.” The two embraced, and Marcellus complimented my brother on his height. “How is it that you can be two years younger than me and still as tall? It must be the Roman sun. It’s not as strong in Gaul.” There was a squeal of delight from behind him, and when Marcellus turned, Julia came into view. She was dressed in a tunic of diaphanous blue silk, with turquoise at her ears and around her neck. I looked like an underfed peasant compared to her, with her perfectly plump waist and ample chest. Only my brother and I