Cleopatra’s Daughter: A Novel (12 page)

There was tremendous applause, and I refused to let my lower lip tremble.

“And tonight,” Octavian continued, “there will be an auction for each of these prizes.” He snapped his fingers and a group of male slaves wheeled twenty covered statues into the triclinium. Some were very large, but others were no bigger than my hand. An excited murmur passed through the room. “Bidding, as always, will be blind.” He smiled briefly. “Enjoy your meal.”

He returned to the table, and Octavia motioned that it was time for us to recline on the couches. It was impossible to get comfortable, and Juba smiled across the table at me.

“Just like a Roman now,” he said. “And I must say, a tunic suits you much better than a chiton. You’ve even donned the
bulla.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “It belongs to Octavia.”

“But you wear it so well.”

Octavia smiled. “Alexander, Selene, I see you’ve met Juba. Perhaps you remember Maecenas as well.” Maecenas’s dark eyes hadn’t left my brother’s face since our arrival. “And this is Maecenas’s wife, Terentilla. A good friend of mine and a great patron of the theater.”

When Terentilla smiled at us, a pair of dimples appeared in her cheeks. “It is a pleasure.”

“And this is the poet Vergil, and the historian Livy.” That completed our table, and while women appeared with food in large silver bowls, Octavia whispered, “This is the
gustatio.”
I presumed that meant the first course. There was cabbage in vinegar, snails, endives, asparagus, clams, and large red crabs. Each person was expected to take what he or she wanted from the middle of the table, and just as in Egypt there were napkins, and spoons whose opposite end could be used as a knife. I chose several clams, and while I was wondering what to do with the empty shells, I saw Agrippa toss his to the floor. Alexander merrily followed his example, discarding his crab shells onto the tiles.

“Alexander,” I hissed.

“What? Everyone else is doing it,” he said guiltily.

“But who cleans it up?”

Alexander frowned. “The slaves.”

Even Octavia was dropping her shells onto the floor, wiping them away with a flick of her wrist as she asked Terentilla to help describe the plays Octavian had missed while he was gone. There was talk of a play in which female actors had actually undressed on stage, and one at which the entire audience rose and walked out because the actors had been so terrible.

When the second course came, Alexander said eagerly, “Look!” Slaves with large platters came to our table first, setting in front of us a variety of meats that would have contented even my father. There was roasted goose in white almond sauce, ostrich with Damascene
prunes, and pheasants. There was even a peacock, served on a platter decorated with its own feathers. But when Alexander saw the thrushes in honeyed glaze, his eyes went wide.

“You’d think you’d never eaten before,” I said critically.

“I’m growing.”

“Into what? Remember what happened to our grandfather.” He had grown to the size of a bull by the time he died.

A slave came to fill our cups with wine, and Octavian whispered something into Terentilla’s ear. She giggled intimately, and his eyes lingered on hers.
Perhaps this is why Livia has never given him a son
, I thought.

“And would you like to see what I picked up along my travels?” I heard him ask. Her dimples appeared, and when she nodded, Octavian snapped his fingers. “The chest from Egypt,” he ordered one of his slaves. “Bring it here.” Though he had eaten only a few olives and some bread, it appeared that he was finished with his meal.

When the chest was placed on a table behind Octavian, Terentilla clapped her hands with joy. “Your treasures!” she exclaimed, and her long lashes fluttered on her cheeks.

“A few,” Octavian admitted, and I was curious to see what he had stolen from Egypt. The slave who had brought the chest to the table produced one curiosity at a time, and Octavian named each one and then passed it around.

“Shall I write down the names?” Livia asked eagerly. “In case you forget?”

“Yes,” Octavian said, and Livia produced a scroll and a reed pen from a hidden drawer in the table. “This is called the Eye of Horus,” he said, and his guests made the appropriate noises of delight. It was a faience amulet, something that would have impressed a peasant farmer outside of Alexandria but would never have found its way inside the palace. I wondered where he had taken it from. “And this is
a statue of the war goddess Sekhmet.” Terentilla thought it was the most beautiful image she had ever seen. When the statuette came to her, she stroked the goddess’s leonine face and drew her finger over the breasts.

“Can you imagine worshipping a goddess with a lion’s head?” she asked Juba. “I’ve heard they have a goddess with a hippo’s head as well!”

“Tawaret,” I said through clenched teeth. “They are old gods, and today the people worship Isis, who is no different from your Venus.”

“I think what Selene is trying to say,” Juba interpreted, “is that the Ptolemies do not worship goddesses with animal heads anymore, but women with wings.”

“I believe your Cupid has wings as well,” I said sharply.

Alexander kicked my shin, but the men around the table laughed. “It’s true!” Vergil said, nodding sagely. Terentilla looked contrite, and I saw that she hadn’t meant any offense. But Octavian wasn’t interested in our banter. He had produced the sketch he’d taken from me on the ship, and Terentilla was the first to murmur her surprise.

“What is
that?”

“An image of Alexandria by Kleopatra Selene,” Octavian replied, though when he looked at me there was no warmth in his eyes. “The princess appears to have great talent in art.”

My drawing was passed around the table, and even Juba seemed impressed, staring at the picture for a second time. Livia made several markings on her scroll, misspelling my name with a
C
in place of a
K
. I didn’t believe there was any person left in Rome who couldn’t spell my mother’s name or mine in Greek, and I knew she did it on purpose.

“The artist and the horseman,” Agrippa remarked. “A pair of very interesting siblings. I wonder—” His words were cut off by a commotion
outside the doors of the triclinium. Guests sat upright on their couches; then the doors flew open and a soldier appeared.

“What is this?” Octavian demanded. When he stood, Juba and Agrippa rose as well.

“Forgive me, Caesar, but there is news I thought you might want to hear.”

“Has our illustrious traitor been caught?” Juba demanded.

“No, but one of the Red Eagle’s followers—”

“Are the soldiers now glorifying him as well?” Octavian shouted.

The soldier stepped back. “No. I—I meant to say
the traitor
. One of the traitor’s followers was discovered posting this on the Temple of Jupiter.” The soldier produced a scroll, and Octavian snatched it. “Another actum,” the soldier said. “And the symbol of the same red eagle at the bottom.”

“Has the man been tortured?” Octavian asked.

“Yes.”

“And what has he said?”

“That he was paid by a stranger in the Forum to nail it up.”

“And who was this stranger?”

The soldier shook his head. “He swears it was a farmer.”

Octavian’s look was murderous. “The man who produces this cannot be a farmer. He is literate and has access to the Palatine. He is a soldier, or a guard, or a very foolish senator. The man is lying!”

“Chop off his hand,” Livia said at once, “and nail it to the Senate door.”

The soldier looked for confirmation from Octavian.

“Yes. And if he still doesn’t remember who paid him to post this, then crucify the rest of him. Agrippa will make sure that it’s done.” When the soldier hesitated, Octavian said sharply, “Go!”

An uneasy silence had settled over the triclinium. Octavian looked
to the harpist. “Keep playing!” he commanded. The girl placed her trembling hands on the strings, and when Octavian resumed his seat, the room filled with nervous conversation.

I turned and whispered to Octavia, “I don’t understand. Who is the Red Eagle?”

Octavia glanced uneasily at her brother, but he was giving instructions to Agrippa. “A man who wants to put an end to slavery.”

“Then he’s inspiring slaves to rebel?” I asked.

Octavia shifted uncomfortably. “No. The attempts to do that have already failed. Slaves have no weapons or organization.”

“So what does he want?” Alexander asked.

“For the
patricians
to rebel. He wants men with money and the power in the Senate to put an end to servitude.”

My brother made a face. “And he thinks that will happen?”

Octavia smiled sadly. “No. The most he can hope for is a leniency of the laws.”

“And if he thinks he will achieve even that, then he’s a fool,” Juba said darkly. “Rome will always have its slaves. Gauls, Germans—”

“Egyptians, Mauretanians. If not for an accident of Fortune,” I said hotly, “you and I might be slaves as well!”

Marcellus looked over from the table next to us, and I realized my voice had been louder than I intended.

“THAT WAS
very brave, what you told him,” Marcellus said.

“Or very foolish,” my brother put in angrily.

“Why? Isn’t it the truth?” I demanded. The three of us sat on separate couches, and Marcellus looked like golden-haired Apollo in the lamplight of our chamber. His strong, tanned arms seemed capable of anything. It was no wonder Octavian preferred him over his bitter stepson Tiberius.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s the truth,” my brother warned. “You’re lucky Caesar didn’t hear you.”

I glanced at the door. Soon Octavia would appear and order us to bed. “What do you think will happen to that prisoner?”

“Exactly what my uncle said. His hand will be nailed to the Senate door.”

“And Agrippa will do it?” Alexander asked quietly. He had removed his diadem, and his hair tumbled over his brow. He pushed it back with his palm.

“Or someone else. But there is no one more loyal than Agrippa. He would strike down his own daughter if she threatened Rome. And they’ll catch this rebel eventually.”

“But why does he use the image of a red eagle?” I asked.

“Because the eagle is the symbol of Rome’s legions. He is trying to say that Rome is dripping with the blood of its slaves. The freedmen all think it’s very brave. But don’t ever use the name in front of my uncle. He thinks it glorifies the rebel’s cause.”

“But if the senators haven’t rebelled,” I asked, “how has the Red Eagle gone against the law?”

“By sneaking into the arenas and freeing gladiators. And by helping husbands and wives who’ve been separated by slavery escape.”

“Escape where?” my brother exclaimed.

“Possibly to their homelands. Gallic slaves were caught on the Flaminian Way a few months ago with enough stolen gold to return to Gaul.”

I glanced at my brother, who must have known what I was thinking, because he shook his head sternly. But what else was there to hope for? If this Red Eagle was willing to help slaves return to Gaul, why wouldn’t he help us return to Egypt? Alexander had heard Octavian’s warning just as well as I had.
The girl is pretty. In a few years, some senator will need to be silenced. She’ll be of marriageable age and will make him happy. And neither of the boys has reached fifteen years. Keeping them alive will seem merciful
. And when it wasn’t merciful anymore? When Alexander came of age and posed a threat?

Marcellus continued, “There is some honor in what the rebel does. It’s only an accident of Fortuna that we were born on the Palatine. We could just as easily be living in the Subura, sleeping with the rats and begging for our food. Or we might have been like Gallia, and sold into slavery.”

Alexander sat forward. “She wasn’t born a slave?”

“No. Her father was King Vercingetorix.”

“She’s a Gallic
princess?”
I gasped.

Marcellus nodded. “When she was a girl, she was brought to
Rome in chains, and years later her father was paraded in Caesar’s Triumph and then executed.” He saw my look and added quickly, “That would never have happened to an Egyptian queen. Vercingetorix was the leader of the Gauls. A barbarian. My mother told me that when Gallia came here, she knew neither Latin nor Greek.”