The Egyptian Royals Collection

by Michelle Moran

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’re still too young, and women are never allowed within. But they’re making a special exception for you.”

  I glanced nervously at my brother.

  “And what will we do?” Alexander asked. The morning’s light shone so brightly from his golden pectoral that Marcellus had to hold up a hand to see him.

  “Sit there while my uncle gives his speech. Then the Triumph will begin. I’ll be riding only a few paces ahead of you,” he said reassuringly.

  “On a float?”

  “A horse. To the right of Caesar.” The position of honor.

  “Come.” Agrippa beckoned Alexander, and as we mounted up the steps, I glanced over my shoulder at Marcellus, who gave me an encouraging smile.

  “This is the Senate,” Agrippa said as we entered. “There is no one inside because it’s still too early. But in a few moments, all of this will be chaos.” The wooden benches for the senators rose in tiers, and across from the door was a raised platform where Octavian would give his speech.

  Alexander craned his neck to see the whole building. “How many senators are there?” he asked.

  “Nearly a thousand,” Agrippa replied.

  “And there’s room for all of them in here?”

  “No. Some of them will have to stand in the back.”

  We crossed the Senate floor toward the platform, and Agrippa held back so that Alexander and I could follow Juba up the three small steps. A statue draped in linen stood next to the dais.

  Octavian looked at Juba. “Is this it?”

  “The statue of Victory,” Juba said. “Sculpted two hundred and fifty years ago in Tarentum and completely unharmed. It is authentic.”

  Octavian tore away the linen, and Alexander and I both stepped forward.

  “Just like Nike,” I whispered in Parthian, “our goddess of victory. I wonder if these Romans ever come up with anything original.” My brother pinched my arm, but I had the satisfaction of knowing that when the senators filed into the building, they would be looking at a statue sculpted by a Greek.

  As the senators arrived, they greeted one another with raised arms, and their voices echoed loudly in the chamber. Men in purple and white togas filled the benches, carrying scrolls under their arms and wearing wreaths on their heads. There were five chairs on the platform, and Agrippa instructed us to sit on his left, freeing his right arm in case he had need of his sword. Alexander seated himself next to Octavian, and on the other side of Caesar was Juba. Both men took their seats, but while Octavian studied his notes, Juba searched the crowd. No one coughed, or stood, or even bent forward to chase an errant scroll without Juba’s notice.

  When there was no more space in the Senate, Agrippa cleared his throat. “It is time.”

  Octavian smoothed his palms against his toga, and I wondered how he could be nervous. These were his people, his victory, his Senate. He unrolled the scroll that Livia had given him outside of Octavia’s villa, and I could see that his hands were shaking. But his eyes were filled with determination. He stood, and the room fell silent. Though it was early in the morning, the chamber was already unbearably hot, and I was thankful for the doors that were propped open so that the senators’ sons could watch the proceedings from outside.

  “Patres et conscripti,” Octavian addressed the men formally. “If you and your children are in health, then all is well. For I and the legions are in health.” There was a roar of approval, though he hadn’t said anything of importance. But then he told them about his conquest over Dalmatia, his victory at Actium, and finally his acquisition of Egypt, which would remain his personal property and not a kingdom to be governed by the Senate. “For Antony shamed himself in the streets of Egypt. He shamed himself in the palace of Alexandria. And he shamed himself by allowing a foreign queen to give commands to our Roman legions. But that shame is over!” There was thunderous applause. I looked at my brother, whose face was as pale as his linen kilt.

  “From this day forward, the name of Marc Antony shall be obliterated from the Fasti. His statues shall be removed from the Forum, and no member of the Antonius clan shall ever be named Marcus so long as there is a Senate in Rome.” The applause rose up again. “Finally, I propose that the birthday of the traitor become a dies nefastus, an unlucky day on which public business shall never be conducted!” There was a roaring cheer, and I assumed that Octavian’s proposal had passed. He looked behind him and smiled at Agrippa. The scroll in his hand was no longer shaking.

  “In the wake of such victories,” Octavian went on, “some of you are wondering why there are no slaves. Perhaps you remember when Julius Caesar conquered Gaul and brought back forty thousand blond barbarians. Now, every woman in Rome wants to be blond. But I will not have our women painting themselves like the whores of Egypt! If your women must paint, let them decorate your villas. Let them buy Egyptian statues. But we are Romans, and we shall look like Romans!”

  The applause that met this statement was deafening.

  “There shall be no temples to Isis within the boundary of Rome. Let Romans worship Roman gods. As for the Senate, I propose an increase in pay. What job in Rome is more important than leading its people and making the decisions that will affect their lives?” There was a hum of approval throughout the building. “This is the dawn of a bright new age. For the first time in several hundred years, we have peace, and there will be prosperity. With my own denarii I shall create not only battalions of fire watchmen but crime watchmen, and increase the number of people who are allowed free grain from three hundred thousand a year to four hundred thousand.” His voice boomed over the Senate, and I realized that this was part of his theater—a way of enslaving citizens to him without chains. “For every victory or personal triumph,” he continued, “I encourage you to contribute to the building of this new Rome. My commander Titus Statilius Taurus has already begun the first amphitheater constructed of stone. My consul Agrippa has put his own denarii into baths that have welcomed tens of thousands of men. Now, he will erect the Pantheon, the greatest temple ever built for our gods. Lucius Marcius Philippus is rebuilding the Temple of Hercules Musarum. What are you building?” he demanded. “On which monuments shall your name be written for eternity?”

  I could feel the senators’ excitement. There was no talk of punishing those who had supported my father, no talk of anything but a new Rome. Octavian made a small, graceful bow. Then suddenly everyone was moving.

  “What’s happening?” I asked Alexander.

  “The Triumph has begun,” Agrippa replied.

  Horns blared in unison outside the Senate, and an old man appeared at the bottom of the platform holding a pair of golden chains. “For the children,” he said.

  I looked to Agrippa.

  “It is only for the Triumph,” he explained, and when he instructed us to hold out our hands, tears betrayed me. He fitted them first around Alexander’s wrists, then turned to me, but didn’t meet my gaze. His daughter Vipsania is four years younger than I am. I wonder if he’s imagining her humiliated this way. He made sure the chains were loose around our wrists, and when a senator smiled at the picture we presented, I forbade myself from crying.

  I was too ashamed to look at my brother as we followed Octavian through the double doors into the Forum. When I tripped over my tunic, Juba said harshly, “Keep walking.”

  “I am,” I retorted.

  “Then you can quit feeling sorry for yourself. You’re still alive.”

  Outside, thousands of people were singing and dancing to the music of flutes. Soldiers attempted to keep the plebs away from the senators, who were organizing themselves in lines for the procession, but it was a fool’s task. Juba led us through the madness to a wooden float, which had been decorated to look like an Egyptian chamber, and began to mount the steps. In front of me, my brother stopped suddenly, and I followed his gaze. At the top, a wax figure of my mother lay on a couch with a cobra coiled between her breasts.

  “Don’
t look,” he said angrily. “They want us to weep in front of Rome.”

  I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted blood, and Juba pointed to a pair of gilded thrones, where we were supposed to sit beside the likeness of our mother. “You will not move,” he instructed. “Or even think of escape.” My eyes flashed, and though I didn’t ask Or what? he added, “There are thousands of soldiers here today, and every one of them would love to claim that he killed one of Marc Antony’s children.”

  I sat obediently and forbade myself from thinking of Charmion. She had hated the noise and closeness of parades, and her heart would have broken to see us sitting there amid the signs of all the cities that Octavian had conquered. Some of the men below were dressed as personifications of rivers the Roman legions had crossed, including the Euphrates and the Rhine. But what would have saddened Charmion the most were the women who had been chained together, naked except for signs on their chests that identified their conquered tribes.

  Alexander surveyed the scene below us; then suddenly he turned to me and whispered, “No one is ever kept alive after a Triumph.”

  “Then why give us rooms? Why let us stay with Octavia?”

  “To keep us obedient!”

  I searched my brother’s face. “Then what do we do?” Alexander lifted his kilt, and when I saw the outline of a knife, I exclaimed, “How did you—?”

  “Shh. I took it from Marcellus. I told him I needed to cut the ropes on our traveling chests and he never asked for it back. We may still be executed, but not without a fight.”

  When the Triumph began, it became a blur of people and soldiers. I was aware of the chariot in front of us, pulled by a team of four white horses and carrying Octavian with his wife and sister. All three were wearing wreaths of laurel, but only Octavian’s face had been stained with vermilion to remind the people of Jupiter, the father of the gods and administrator of justice. I watched Octavian smile through his dark-red mask, and wondered what role he would perform once the procession reached the temple. Would he be the executioner?

  We passed the Temple of Divus Julius, where a speaker’s platform had been built from the prows of ships Octavian had captured at Actium. And while crowds of people screamed below us, I couldn’t hear anything but the sound of blood rushing in my ears. From the tops of porticoes streamed long crimson banners, and in a courtyard where children were playing games, a statue of the Egyptian god of death had been erected, with a collar below its canine head and a sign that read, BARKING ANUBIS HAS BEEN TAMED. There were other signs as well, rewards for slaves who’d gone missing or had been captured. Slave catchers, who called themselves fugitivarii, clearly thought that this was the time to advertise their services, and I wondered if slaves used public days like this to escape from their households. I looked down at the chains around my wrists, thinking it might be possible for us to escape. But Juba hovered next to Octavian like a hawk, studying the crowds with his sharp black eyes, watching, waiting.

  When we reached the Capitoline Hill, the floats were surrounded by the cheering, drinking mobs as they groaned their way toward the top. The senators tried to push the men back, and soldiers made threatening gestures with their shields, but no one wanted to shed Roman blood on a day of victory. The crowds chanted, “Io Triumphe!” and when I turned my head I could see that, below us, the smaller floats carried treasures from my mother’s mausoleum. Gold and silver gleamed from open chests, and the sun was reflected from the beautiful wine bowls and golden rhyta my father had used when he was alive. We rolled to a stop before Jupiter’s temple, and for the first time I could see Marcellus and Tiberius on their horses. Both of them dismounted, but it was Marcellus who came toward us. I glanced at my brother, whose hand went swiftly to his knife.

  “Marcellus would never hurt us,” I said.

  “He will do whatever Octavian commands.”

  But as Marcellus mounted the steps of our float, he looked from my brother to me and his color rose. “What is this?” he shouted. “Somebody take off these chains!” The same old man who had appeared in the Senate approached the base of our float with a key. “Today!” Marcellus snapped impatiently. As soon as we were free, he led us down the steps and shook his head understandingly. “It’s over now.”

  But Alexander hesitated. “So what will your uncle do with us?”

  “When?”

  “Today,” my brother replied.

  “I doubt you will be the guests of honor, if that’s what you mean. He will probably ask Agrippa—”

  “But are we to be executed?” I cried.

  Marcellus recoiled. “Of course not.” He looked at both of us, startled by our solemn silence. “Is that what you were thinking?” When neither of us answered him, he swore, “My mother would never let that happen. You’re like her own children.”

  “So was Antyllus,” Alexander reminded him, “and he was slaughtered at the feet of Caesar’s statue in Alexandria.”

  Marcellus nodded gravely. He had been raised with our half brother Antyllus during the years that that Octavia was married to our father, and had known him far longer than we ever had. “This is different,” he promised. “You’re too young to threaten him.”

  “And when we turn fifteen?” my brother demanded.

  “He will marry you off. Until then, you’ll just have to suffer through school with the rest of us.” There was a blast of horns and Marcellus motioned quickly. “Hurry!”

  Inside the Temple of Jupiter, men stepped aside when they recognized Marcellus, and as we made our way past the bodies of sweating senators, an old man held out his hand to me. “For you, Selene.”

  I recognized the symbol of Isis on his belt at once. To anyone else, the knot would have been unremarkable, but I knew it was a sacred tiet. I looked around, but the temple was too crowded for anyone to see. Quickly, I took the slip of papyrus from his hand.

  “A thousand blessings,” he said as I passed.

  As we reached the altar I pretended to adjust the brooch at my shoulder. I unpinned it and, slipping the scrap of papyrus beneath, repinned it so that no one could see. Then my heart began to beat faster in my chest. I wondered what the message might be—rebellion, rescue, delivery from Rome—and when I looked up, I saw Juba watching me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WE WERE given time to prepare ourselves before the Feast of Triumph, but I didn’t show Alexander what I had received. Instead, I slipped the secret message into my book of sketches. Then, while Gallia brushed my wig and laid out a fresh tunic, I took the book with me into the bathing room and read the note.

  There is hope in the Temple of Isis. Egypt is lost only so long as the Sun and Moon are imprisoned. I wish for the Sun to come, and we shall prepare for a time when the Moon may rise again.

  It was written in hieroglyphics, and even if the message was short, its meaning was clear. If I could make my way to the Temple of Isis, the High Priest would find a way to return us to Alexandria. I thought of the madness in the Temple of Jupiter, where a thousand senators had crowded together, laughing and drinking and chanting “Io Triumphe!” Those same senators would be invited to Octavian’s villa, and I was certain I could slip away unnoticed. Of course, Alexander couldn’t come. If both of us disappeared, the alarm would be raised, and there would be no time to meet with the High Priest. Besides, if I told Alexander what I was doing, he would argue against it. I closed my book of sketches, and when Gallia returned, I asked casually, “Do you know of a temple to Isis in Rome?”

  She gave me a long look before sweeping my hair into a knot and fitting the wig over my head. “There is a temple to Isis on the Campus Martius. It is outside the boundary of the city,” she said. “But I would not think of asking to go there,” she warned. “Domina will not like it.”

  “Why?”

  Gallia gave an elegant shrug. “Domina worships Roman gods. She does not believe in the gods of other nations.”

  “So when you came to Rome,” I asked quietly, “did you lose your gods as well?”
>
  She laughed sharply. “The gods cannot be lost. These Romans can shatter our statues,” she whispered, “and replace them with images of Jupiter and Apollo, but the gods remain here.” She touched my chest briefly. “And here.” She indicated the space above us. “Artio still watches over me.”

  Octavia entered the chamber behind us, followed by Alexander and Marcellus, who were dressed in matching kilts and pharaonic crowns. They poked their heads into the bathing room and Marcellus asked, “So? Could I pass for an Egyptian?”

  I rose from my chair. “Where did you get that?” I exclaimed. A golden collar gleamed from his neck, as bright as newly minted coins.

  “My uncle had it made for me and sent from Alexandria.”

  I studied the collar closely. The hieroglyphics were etched in silver, and the name of a nineteenth-dynasty Pharaoh was written on the side. “Are you sure you’re not wearing the possessions of the dead?”

  Octavia covered her mouth in horror. “If that is something from one of the tombs—”

  “Your brother would never steal anything from a tomb. He’s afraid of lightning,” Marcellus reminded her, “and his entire chamber is filled with amulets. Do you really think he would go digging in cursed sands?”

  “No,” she agreed.

  But I wasn’t so sure. Perhaps one of Octavian’s soldiers had thought it was easier to steal than to create. After all, Octavian himself had stolen the ring from the body of Alexander the Great.

  “Besides,” Marcellus added mischievously, “this is far too nice to have been made a thousand years ago. Ready?” He took my arm, and Alexander fell into step beside us.