The Egyptian Royals Collection (158 page)

There was a surprised murmur in the room as I entered, and I noticed with a pang that the table where Alexander and I used to sit was no longer there. Instead, it had been moved next to Octavia and Vitruvius, and this was where Marcellus and Julia were reclining. Immediately a space was made for me next to Juba, whose strong profile was silhouetted against the candlelight. As I took my seat, there was an uneasy silence.

“Welcome back,” Claudia said, and each person offered a quiet welcome. Then, slowly, conversation resumed, and it was as if I had never been gone. They were careful not to laugh too much, and even Tiberius held his tongue. But it was Juba who concerned me most, and finally I turned to him.

“I was wrong,” I said.

“About what?” he asked shortly.

“You. I underestimated your … your generosity. And the statue of my brother was very kind.”

“It wasn’t for you. It was for Alexander.”

I flushed. “Either way. It was very thoughtful and—”

“Make no mention of it.” He stood. “It is time for me to say
valete,”
he announced. “There is a great deal to prepare if Augustus is approaching.”

“He’s coming back?” I exclaimed.

Juba regarded me gravely. “With fifty thousand members of the Alpine Salassi.”

“As prisoners of war?”

“Slaves,” Tiberius said. “Although only Juno knows where they’re going to fit in a city already swimming with Gauls.”

Everyone looked at me, and I realized why I hadn’t been told. They didn’t want me to panic. They were afraid I might take my own life the way my mother took hers when everything was lost and Augustus was on the horizon. From the first time he had seen us in Alexandria, Augustus had known when my brother would die. A grown son of Marc Antony and Kleopatra would be a rallying point across the empire; a threat not only in Egypt but in Rome. There had never been hope of returning to Egypt no matter how hard we worked to become useful to him.

“Why don’t you come with us?” Julia asked quickly. “Marcellus and I are going to the theater.”

I shook my head.

“You should go,” Octavia prompted. “It’s a Greek play tonight.”

“Sophocles,” Marcellus said.

“No. I think I will go to my chamber.”

Vitruvius gave a meaningful look to his son, so I wasn’t surprised when someone knocked on my door that evening and it was Lucius.

“Did your father send you?” I asked.

For a moment, Lucius considered lying. Then he admitted, “Yes. But I would have come anyway.”

I let him inside, and his eyes grew big. It was a little Egypt, with rich swaths of red silk hanging from the walls, and bronze incense burners in the shape of sphinxes. An ankh hung over my couch next to an image of Isis. I no longer cared if I upset Augustus or if the slaves wrote to Livia about my chamber. What more could be done to me? What else could I lose?

“So is this what Alexandria is like?” Lucius asked.

I laughed sadly. “A pale imitation.”

He seated himself on my leather chair, casting about for something to say. “I guess you’ve heard that the Senate has voted to give Augustus tribunician power for life. That’s even bigger than the consulship.”

“Yes. He owns the world now.”

“But not you.”

I looked up.

“No one can keep you from drawing, Selene. No matter what happens, you’ll still have the support of Octavia and Vitruvius. And do you know what Julia and Marcellus are doing? They’re making plans to build a house for foundlings, and they say it’s in honor of you.”

“Did they ask you to tell me this?”

“No.” This time, his answer was firm. “But I lost a great friend, too, and some days, even when I don’t want to carry on, I do.” He blinked rapidly. “You know that Augustus arrives tomorrow.”

Immediately, thoughts of Augustus’s death returned, and I wondered whether someone might assassinate him.

“There are reports that he’s sick,” Lucius went on. “We all know that he’s never been strong. Even the mild weather in Iberia hasn’t been enough to keep him in good health. When he comes, please don’t do anything rash.”

“What makes you think I would?”

He gave me a long look. “You aren’t known for your prudence.”

“Perhaps someone else will do it for me, then.”

“You are the last of the Ptolemies, Selene. There is no one else after you whose veins carry blood of Alexander the Great and Kleopatra. Be careful, or everything your grandfathers fought for will be snuffed out.”

“It already is.”

“No. Not unless the last Ptolemy dies.”

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.

“Where will you go when we reach the temple?” I asked.

“To the Palatine.”

“And how will you explain your wound?”

“The soldiers were shooting at everyone,” he said shortly. “They’ll simply think I was in their way.”

“But will Augustus believe it?”

He didn’t reply, though when we reached the end of the tunnel, I thought for a moment he might say something more. Instead, he reached down and offered me his dagger.

“What’s this for?”

“You don’t remember your first trip down the Palatine alone?”

“But that was at night!”

“And do you think that criminals disappear in the day? I’ll be behind you,” he promised. “But you must leave first. When the path is clear, I want you to whistle. Then start walking. All the way to the Palatine.”

My hand trembled violently as I took the dagger. I slipped it safely beneath my belt, then opened the door and stepped out onto the marble portico outside the Temple of Vesta. I was shocked to see that the entrance was empty.
Everyone has gone to see the fire
, I thought. I whistled immediately, and when I heard the door open, I began to walk. Gallia knew where I had gone, and it was possible that Tiberius had heard as well. If I returned to the Palatine with Juba, only a fool would fail to realize what had happened.