The Egyptian Royals Collection (137 page)

“Or access to the Palatine,” Marcellus realized. He looked at me. “Do you think it’s him?”

“You say you aren’t the Red Eagle. You haven’t told us where you’ve been going, but if we’re to believe you, who else could it be?”

Marcellus sat back against the couch, but didn’t rise to my bait. “It would make sense. But it could also be a hundred other people.”

“Which is why we can’t say anything,” Alexander said swiftly.

“You wouldn’t turn him in even if you knew, would you?” I asked.

Marcellus was thoughtful. “If I knew for certain who it was, and my uncle came to know.…”

I looked to Alexander. We had been wrong to tell him about Gallia and Verrius.

“I won’t say anything,” Marcellus promised. “But it isn’t me.”

When he left, I studied Alexander in the lamplight. “Do you believe him?”

“I don’t know.”

I lay down on my couch and looked at the ceiling. “So do you think the Red Eagle will save them tomorrow?”

“No. He has every legionary in Rome looking for him. If I were the Red Eagle, I’d disappear for several months.”

I dressed in the darkness, then crept through the atrium to the dimly lit library before dawn broke across the sky. I could see Vitruvius silhouetted against the lamplight, and with his sharp profile he reminded me of a bird. He looked up from his desk.

“Have they been killed?” I asked him.

Vitruvius furrowed his bald brow. “Who?”

“The slaves being held in the Carcer!”

His face became suddenly tender. “Executions don’t begin until dawn, Selene, but you can be certain that they will die. Those were the orders.”

“From whom? A group of fifty judices, not one of whom has ever known slavery? How is that fair?”

Vitruvius nodded slowly. “Many things aren’t fair.”

“But isn’t that what Caesar is for? To make things right?”

“No. Caesar is here to keep the peace. And if two hundred slaves have to die in order to keep the peace in Rome, then he is willing to sacrifice them.”

I stared at him.

“I don’t mean to say that’s my belief,” he added, “but that is what Caesar is thinking.”

I took a seat on the opposite side of his desk, but I didn’t take out my book of sketches. “Do you think the Red Eagle will save them?”

“No. And I wouldn’t mention his name in this villa. What began as an annoyance has become a real threat. The boy who was crucified
made his attempt in the name of the rebel. You may think this man is brave, Selene, you may even sympathize with those slaves, but do not speak his name around Caesar or his sister.”

I was disappointed that Vitruvius didn’t understand, and when I returned to my chamber an hour later so that Gallia could arrange my hair, I told her what he’d said.

“He’s right.”

I looked up at her in surprise.

“No one knows whether that boy was working for the Red Eagle.”

You do
, I wanted to say, but kept my silence until I could know for certain. Besides, if she had wanted to confide in me, she would have. “And the two hundred slaves?”

She lowered her head. “They were crucified this morning.”

I gasped. “All of them?”

“The smallest children were poisoned.” She saw my look in the mirror and stepped in front of me. “There is no use in letting this consume you,” she warned. “You are free, and if you keep away from trouble, perhaps Caesar will return you to Egypt. Then think of the things you could change.”

I closed my eyes and willed myself not to cry. Instead, I vowed that I would be the most talented apprentice Vitruvius could ever want, and that by my twelfth birthday even Octavian would see that I was useful.

December, 29 BC

“
HIS WHEELS
are smoking!” Alexander exclaimed, rising from our couch. “Did you see that, Selene?”

A
sparsor
rushed onto the tracks with a bucket of water and doused the chariot’s wheels while the driver made frantic motions for the man to hurry. Then the
sparsor
jumped back, and the driver continued racing.

“I don’t see how anything can be smoking on a day like this,” I said grimly, tightening my cloak around my shoulders.

Next to me, Marcellus waved his hand. “Oh, it’s not so bad. Wait until tomorrow.”

“What happens tomorrow?”

“From the looks of it, snow.” Julia shivered in her cloak. We had exchanged our silk tunics for cotton months ago, but now that it was nearing the middle of December, nothing seemed to ward off the cold.

“You mean there will be snow on the mountains?” Alexander asked.

“And everywhere else.” Marcellus held out his hand, and the mist
left a fine sheen on his palm. “It would be a shame if it snows during Saturnalia. My mother says once it snowed for three days.”

I exchanged looks with Alexander.

“What’s the matter?” Julia asked. “Haven’t you ever seen snow?”

“Only when it was cooling our mother’s wine,” I admitted.

Marcellus laughed. “That’s it? But you must have tasted
nix dulcis.”

I frowned.

“The sweet snow brought down from the mountains,” Julia prompted, “mixed with honey and fruit.”

Both Alexander and I shook our heads.

“Well, you haven’t lived if you’ve never tasted
nix dulcis,”
Marcellus said. “Perhaps there’ll be some in the markets before Saturnalia.”

“So what is Saturnalia?” Alexander asked.

Julia grinned. “On the seventeenth, we’ll go to the Temple of Saturn. And for an entire week there’s no work and no school. No one has to wear a toga, and even slaves can gamble.”

“Will the Circus be open?” Alexander asked.

I sighed impatiently, but Marcellus laughed. “It’s always open. And I’ve heard that if it isn’t snowing, the Pompeians will be sending up their teams to challenge Rome. We’ll have to come down to the stables in advance.”

“There’s also a feast every day for a week,” Julia added. “And people exchange gifts.”

“For what?” I asked.

“Just for fun! They’re only small things. Like pretty silks or statues. It’s really for the children.”

“And slaves change positions with their masters,” Marcellus added. “We sit in the atrium where the slaves usually dine, and they use the triclinium—”

“Not this year,” Julia warned. “My father forbade it. He also said the first feast will be hosted by Pollio.”

Marcellus groaned. “Why? He never stops talking, unless it’s to shove food in his mouth.”

“At least Horatia will be there,” Julia said glumly.

“And how can she move? She’s nearly due.”

“Pregnant women can still walk,” Julia retorted. “She might even have the child by then.”

It snowed on the seventeenth of December. Like a white linen sheath, the snow covered the roads and the rooftops; it froze the fountains and brought every kind of traffic to a halt. A bitter wind blew through the streets of Rome, carrying the scents of charcoal braziers. On the steps to the Temple of Saturn, I tightened Alexander’s hood around his face.

“Do I look like a gryphon in this thing?” he asked.

“No. You look like a prince of Egypt.” It was true. The heavy cloak was trimmed in ermine, and the soft white contrasted with his olive skin. Dark tendrils escaped from his hood, and they blew about in the wind, making him look like a statue of young Hermes. “It’s really cold here, isn’t it?” I said bleakly.

“It makes you wish we were back in Alexandria.”

“Many things make me wish that.”

As soon as Octavian’s ritual in the temple was finished, horse-drawn carriages took us to Pollio’s villa. The carriages were normally forbidden in Rome, but the streets were too slick to risk riding in litters. And because the skies were so dark, a dozen torchbearers lit the way. I huddled in my cloak, too cold to speak, and when I stole a glance at Julia, her red cheeks and bright nose announced her misery. I don’t remember ever feeling so happy to reach shelter as I did when we entered Pollio’s villa. A rush of warm air engulfed us, and the smell of roasted meat filled the vestibulum.

“Thank the gods,” Octavian said. He seemed to be suffering the worst of all. Beneath his woolen cloak, he wore three separate tunics, and there was a brace on his right hand, which Marcellus said stiffened every year with the cold.

Pollio spread his arms. “Welcome!”

“Take us to the triclinium,” Livia commanded. “My husband is in pain.”

“Of course!” as Pollio rushed to do her bidding, his heavy fur cloak fanned out around him. “Of course!”

We passed through the atrium, where elaborate braziers did very little to offset the frigid air. But when we reached the triclinium, Octavian’s shoulders relaxed. The room was as warm as any bathhouse. Flowers bloomed from precious gold vases, and garlands twisted around the columns as if it were spring.

“How extravagant,” Livia said critically.

“Where is Horatia?” Julia asked.

There had been no sign of the hostess, and as guests crowded into the room, Pollio hesitated. “I’m afraid she cannot be with us tonight.”

“Why?” Julia looked around. “Is she sick?”

“In a fashion.”

“She’s not having the baby?” Octavia exclaimed.

Pollio nodded as if he were embarrassed. “I’m afraid it is bad timing—”

“So why are we here?” Octavia cried.

Pollio frowned. “Because I promised to host Caesar on the first night of Saturnalia.”

Julia’s look was mutinous. “I want to see her.”

“I’m sorry, but she is in her chamber.”

“And what does that mean? That she should be shut up like some birthing cow while everyone else feasts?” Julia cried.

“Control yourself,” Octavian said firmly, “and take your couch.”

“But I would rather see Horatia. Please, Father. Please.”

Octavian looked to Pollio. “Will the child come tonight?”

“If I am lucky. Imagine having to pay for a feast for Saturnalia and a birthing feast as well.”

“Then perhaps my daughter can visit her. It’s a comfort to women in labor to have others in their chamber.”