Cleopatra’s Daughter

When word was sent ahead from the walls of Rome that Augustus was about to enter the city, we gathered in the Forum, and I thought of Ptolemies who had come before me and wondered what they would do. I knew what my mother had chosen, an honorable suicide over ignominy. But what would she have done if she were standing on the steps of Saturn’s temple, wearing a Roman bulla and waiting to greet the man who had murdered her family?

I searched the temple steps for Juba, who had come here every month to deposit denarii in a treasury chest for Alexander and me without ever telling us. When I couldn’t find him, I asked Agrippa.

“He’s been sent ahead to inspect the spoils. The Cantabri left behind thousands of statues.”

“Why? Where did they go?”

“They chose death over slavery,” Agrippa said solemnly.

Next to me, Gallia’s blue eyes narrowed, and I imagined how difficult it must be for her to witness a second subjugation of her people.

The war trumpets blared, and from the sound of the crowds lining the Vicus Jugarius it was evident that the army had arrived. I felt someone squeeze my hand.

“He’s coming,” Julia said, but there was a nervousness in her voice that made me wonder how happy she was.

Drums beat out a rhythm to the approaching horses’ hooves, and Octavia shouted, “There he is!” White horses with red plumage came into view, and then Augustus, the triumphant conqueror of foreign lands, appeared at the head of his army in a golden chariot. I could see at once that he had lost weight, but a muscled cuirass disguised his weakness, and the paleness of his face was covered with vermilion. Livia rode behind him in a chariot of her own, followed by all the generals who had really won the war. The crowd worked itself into a frenzy as thousands of Gauls rolled by in filthy cages and soldiers held up urns of gold, amphorae, and silver rhyta.

Augustus stopped before the Temple of Saturn. Because no one wanted to hear the misery of the weeping Gauls, soldiers rolled the cages into the courtyard of the Basilica Julia, where they’d be kept until the prisoners could be sold. Augustus descended from his chariot, and the cheers that rose as his victorious generals gathered around him must have deafened the gods. Agrippa held out a golden laurel wreath, and I turned my head, disgusted by the spectacle. Instead I watched the soldiers outside the basilica as they attempted to organize more than five hundred cages. It was madness, and from my vantage point on the steps, I could see more soldiers hurrying from the basilica to help in the fray.

But as I watched, I realized that the supposed reinforcements weren’t soldiers. The men were dressed as legionaries, in the right sandals, crested helmets, and scarlet cloaks, but black masks covered the top half of their faces. I gasped. The Red Eagle had come to free the Gauls! The men were working swiftly, opening cage after cage and instructing the prisoners to remain where they were until the signal was given. Somehow, the Red Eagle had come by keys, and as lock after lock opened, I could see the prisoners rushing to the sides of their cages.

Then one of the soldiers on the temple steps followed my gaze and saw what was happening. “They’re escaping!” he shouted, interrupting Augustus’s Triumph. “The prisoners are escaping!” he cried.

From across the courtyard, one of the masked men looked up and realized they’d been seen. “Go!” he shouted, and though he’d spoken in Gaulish, I was familiar with the word from Gallia’s reprimands. The doors were flung open and thousands of prisoners began to flee. Panic ensued in the basilica’s courtyard, and the liberatores discarded their masks. Soldiers, uncertain who was on their side and who wasn’t, fired arrows indiscriminately into the crowd. One arrow struck the rebels’ leader, and I saw him clutch his shoulder in agony.

“He’s been hit!” I shrieked.

Gallia rushed forward. “Come back here, Selene!”

“But he’s been wounded!”

It didn’t matter that I ran. Everyone was moving, and it was impossible to remain on the steps of the temple. Smoke rose from the rooftop of the Basilica Julia, and a woman screamed, “The basilica’s on fire!” While thousands of people ran from the flames, I rushed toward them. A woman with two children in her arms warned me to turn back, shouting that the fire would take the entire building. But I followed a trail of blood into an abandoned shop, and I heard a man behind the counter breathing heavily. I rushed to him, but as soon as he saw me, he turned his face away. “Go!” he growled.

“I’m here to help you!”

“How? By getting yourself killed?”

“No! There’s a tunnel. It leads to the House of the Vestals, and from there you can escape.”

“Then tell me where it is, and get yourself out of here.”

“I can’t describe it. You’ll have to trust me.”

He hesitated, and when he turned, I covered my mouth in shock.

“Juba!”

“Who did you think you would find?” he asked grimly. “Marcellus?”

I ignored the sting in his words and bent over him. He was losing a great deal of blood, and I ripped my tunic to make a bandage. My hands trembled when I touched the heat of his skin. “But the man who saved us in the Forum Boarium was blond. Even Julia saw him.”

“And there are such things as wigs,” he said sharply.

“Then what about the actum while you were in Gaul?” I tried not to think about the sudden wetness on my tunic, though I knew it was his blood.

“There are others who seek an end to slavery as well.”

I was aware of my hair brushing his chest as I tied his binding. It took several knots before it stayed in place.

“That’s enough,” he said gruffly.

“Where is the point?”

He drew my eyes to a bloodied shaft on the floor, and though my stomach clenched, I could see that its point was still intact. Nothing remained in his body, but if he wasn’t stitched soon, it might not matter. I offered him my arm, and he took it without complaining.

“Can you run?”

“Yes.”

We rushed through the Basilica Julia. Smoke was beginning to fill the halls, and Juba leaned more heavily on me than he probably intended. I could feel he was weakening, and quickly I tried to recall one of Vitruvius’s sketches. The basilica housed law courts, offices, and shops, and the Vestals had wanted a tunnel from their temple so they could reach the shops without being seen. But to which shop had it led?

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” he demanded.

“I’ve seen the sketch more than a dozen times.” I led him inside a silk merchant’s taberna and looked around. The shop had been abandoned, and customers had fled without taking their purchases. I grabbed a woman’s tunic and flung it over my shoulder. I would change before we reached the Palatine.

“Where is the tunnel?”

“I don’t know! But it’s here.”

Juba stepped behind the counter, where a heavy curtain covered the wall. With a flick of his wrist, he swept it aside, revealing an open door. He stepped inside first, and when he was sure that it was safe, he leaned on my arm and allowed me to guide him. There was nothing inside to relieve the darkness, and as we hurried, I felt my way along the wall.

“You should change,” he said.

I stopped walking, and though I knew he couldn’t see me as I undressed, my cheeks grew warm at the thought of him there. I remembered the last time I had stood in my breastband and loincloth in front of him. We had been in the Blue Grotto, and I had tried to keep myself from staring at his half-naked body in the water. “What should I do with the bloodied—?”

“Give it to me. Now hurry.” As we continued down the tunnel, his breathing grew more labored.