The Egyptian Royals Collection

by Michelle Moran

  “Is this how Romans see Egyptians?” I asked. “In kilts and pectorals?”

  “And crowns and gold cuffs,” Marcellus added.

  Alexander held up the linen flap of his blue-and-gold-striped headdress. “No one has worn this in three hundred years.”

  “Well, prepare for a resurgence,” Marcellus warned, and in Octavian’s villa hundreds of senators were dressed in similar crowns, with thick bands of gold encircling their wrists. The women wore golden snakes on their arms, and their short black wigs were cut sharply to the chin. Despite the proclamation that Romans must dress like Romans, the senators and their wives were happy enough to try and look like Egyptians so long as it was in mockery and in celebration of Octavian’s triumph. “Julia!” Marcellus called excitedly, and when she crossed the garden where dining tables and couches had been arranged, I heard Marcellus draw in his breath. Julia’s long white sheath was completely transparent when her back was to the sun. I wondered pettily if her father had seen her dressed like that. “You look like an Egyptian princess,” Marcellus swore. “Doesn’t she, Selene?”

  Julia fixed me with her dark-eyed glare.

  “Yes. Just like an Egyptian,” I lied.

  Julia turned to Marcellus. “Did you hear what my father plans to build?” She snapped her fingers at a passing slave who was balancing a platter on his palm. He held out the tray and Julia handed the largest cup of wine to Marcellus, leaving Alexander and me to take our own. “He is going to begin his mausoleum,” she said merrily.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I think I will go and sit with Octavia.”

  Alexander grabbed my arm before I could leave. “Where are you going?” he whispered in Parthian.

  “Where I won’t have to hear about Octavian’s mausoleum!” When he moved to come with me, I shook my head. “Stay here with Marcellus,” I told him. As I left, I looked behind me to make sure he wasn’t following. The sun had disappeared beneath the hills and the gardens were illuminated now by hanging lanterns. As I made my way through the crowded villa, I saw Octavian in his formal tunica Jovis standing with Terentilla in a corner of the triclinium. She was tracing the palm leaves on his tunic with her finger, and the two of them were laughing intimately. Neither of them looked in my direction, and it wasn’t difficult to make my way to the vestibulum and out the front doors into the dusk.

  I was surprised there was no one following me. Perhaps Octavian couldn’t imagine a scenario in which Alexander and I might try to escape, or perhaps we had simply finished being useful to him, and if we were foolish enough to run away, then our punishment would be of little consequence. I wondered what that punishment might be, and decided that whatever it was, I was willing to take the risk. My mother would want this, I told myself, making my way down the Palatine Hill. And if anyone sees me, they’ll simply think I’m another senator’s daughter.

  The sky was the color of blooming hibiscus, a red that turned to purple and gradually black. I didn’t know where I might find the Campus Martius, but I was determined to ask the priest in the small temple to Jupiter at the base of the hill. The noise of the festivities drifted down from above, and the sharp laughter of women made my heart race. Would one of them want to speak with me and find that I was gone? I walked as quickly as the steep incline would allow, being careful not to trip over my sandals.

  Bands of drunken men lumbered up the road, singing about Bacchus and inviting me to drink with them. “Come here, my pretty Egyptian queen. There’s a thing or two I’d like to teach you about Rome.” But I had seen enough leering drunks with my father to know that I must simply avoid their gaze. I made my way around several groups of men, but when one of them reached out to grab me, I was too slow.

  “Get off of me!”

  “What’s the matter?” His friends began to laugh, and he pushed his lips roughly against mine. “You’re not too young for paint.”

  He dragged me toward a copse of trees, and when I screamed, the laughter of his friends grew more distant. They’re leaving me with him to be violated, I realized. I kicked at his shins, but he wrestled me to the ground. His heavy stomach pushed against the front of my body, and I could feel his desire beneath his kilt. I turned my head to scream, but as his hand reached down to lift my tunic a shadow loomed behind him. There was the flash of a knife and suddenly my attacker grew still. I didn’t wait to see who the shadow was. I crawled through the darkness to the cobbled road, then ran the rest of the way down the hill. When I placed my sandal on the first step of the temple, a hand grabbed my arm and I cried out.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Frightened, I turned around, and Juba shook me with both hands.

  “What are you doing out here?” he shouted.

  “I’m—”

  “Think carefully before you lie.” I didn’t say anything, so he guessed. “You were going to the Temple of Isis.”

  My eyes must have given me away, because he took my arm and wrenched me up the hill.

  “You’re hurting me!” I cried.

  “You were prepared to risk worse.”

  “Where are you taking me?” I was ashamed that my voice trembled. When he didn’t answer, I asked quietly, “Did you kill that man?”

  “Would you rather he lived?”

  We kept walking, and his grip on my arm was hurting. “You have no right to touch me.” I tried to pull away. “I’m a princess of Egypt!”

  “And what do you think makes a princess?” he demanded.

  I raised my chin. “Her education.”

  He laughed mockingly. “Her gold! Did you really think the High Priest was going to help you return to Egypt out of kindness? I saw what he gave you in the Temple of Jupiter, and there’s only one reason he would contact you. He wanted payment. Of one kind”—his eyes lingered on my diadem—“or another.” He made a point of studying the rip in my tunic.

  “No.” I shook my head. “Not a high priest of Isis.”

  “Oh no. And not a citizen of Rome. Do you understand what that man would have done to you?”

  “Of course!”

  “Then understand this.” He stopped walking, and his face was so close to mine that I could see the muscles of his jaw working angrily. “Women who walk the streets by themselves are kidnapped by men and sold as slaves. So far, Fortuna has smiled on you, although I have no idea why she wastes her time on such a pampered little girl. You have your brother in Rome, a tidy sum in the Temple of Saturn for whatever you need—”

  “I don’t have any sum.”

  “Of course you do,” he said bitterly. “I know because I transferred it there myself. So unlike some of us who were captured at war, Your Highness will never have to dirty her fingers to make her way in Rome. Octavia may want to see you survive, but I can promise you this. Fortuna’s smiles don’t last forever. And if I ever hear of escape or rebellion associated with your name, I will not bother to knife the next man in the back.”

  He released my arm and I staggered backward. “You’re Octavian’s man through and through,” I said, intending to insult him. But he only smiled.

  “That’s right. Everything belongs to Caesar.”

  “Not me!”

  “Yes, even you, Princess.”

  A group of men dressed as Egyptian pharaohs passed us by, but none of them looked in my direction. They all eyed Juba warily and then moved away. He caught my arm and we continued walking up the Palatine.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Back where you belong,” he said.

  In the vestibulum of Octavia’s villa, I heard footsteps coming toward us and held my breath.

  “Selene!” Octavia put her hand on her chest. I could see the shadows of Marcellus and Alexander behind her. “We couldn’t find you anywhere!” she exclaimed. “We thought you were—” She looked from me to Juba, and her expression grew wary. “You weren’t planning on running away?”

  “No,” he said. “I found her near the Temple of Jupiter. I think she was
planning on making an offering.”

  Octavia studied me with her soft eyes, refusing to admonish me for what she must have known I’d attempted.

  When everyone had left, Alexander kept staring at me. “You didn’t really—?”

  I turned from him and stalked into our chamber. “I had a message from Egypt.”

  “What do you mean?” He slammed the door.

  “In the Temple of Jupiter, the High Priest of Isis and Serapis gave me a message.”

  In the lamplight, Alexander watched me, aghast. “And you thought you would travel across Rome to visit him? Without telling me?”

  “You would have said no!”

  “Of course I would have! Gods, Selene. How could you be so foolish? Ptolemaic rule of Egypt is finished.”

  “It will never be finished!” I ripped off my wig, too tired to bother with my paint and tunic. “As long as we are alive—”

  There was a sound outside our door, then a soft knock. Alexander glanced uneasily at me. “Come in,” he said. We both rushed to our couches and pulled the linens over our chests.

  Octavia appeared, and I was certain that she had come to reprimand me. She placed her lamp next to Alexander, then sat on the edge of his couch so that she could look at both of us. I held my breath.

  “Tomorrow, school will begin,” she said softly. “Gallia will take you to the Forum, where you will meet Magister Verrius near the Temple of Venus Genetrix. He will be the one to instruct you over these next few years.” When we didn’t say anything, she added, “Marcellus will be there, as well as Tiberius and Julia.” When there was still nothing either of us felt we could say, she asked awkwardly, “Did both of you enjoy the feast?”

  Alexander nodded against his pillow. “Caesar’s villa is magnificent,” he replied. But I knew he was lying. My mother’s guest houses had been larger than Octavian’s villa, and all of the lanterns in Rome could not have illuminated the smallest palace garden in Alexandria.

  But Octavia was pleased. “My brother is turning Rome from a city of clay into a city of marble. He and Agrippa have great plans.” She placed her hand tenderly on Alexander’s forehead, and I saw him flinch. “Sleep well.” She stood, then gazed down at me in a way that only Charmion ever had. “Valete,” she said softly. When she opened the door, I could see the figure of a thin, balding man waiting near her chamber. He wrapped his arm around her waist, and as the door swung shut, I sat up and looked at Alexander.

  “The architect Vitruvius,” he said.

  “The one who wrote De architectura?” He was the only Roman architect we’d ever studied in the Museion. “Are they—?”

  “Lovers? I guess. He came here to see your sketches, but you had disappeared. You should be thankful she isn’t going to tell Octavian. Instead, she came in here and wished us happy dreams. You have no idea how fortunate we are—”

  “And how is losing your kingdom fortunate? How is losing our brothers, our mother, our father, even Charmion and Iras, fortunate?”

  “Because we could be dead!” Alexander sat up. I heard the sound of a window opening in the chamber next door. I imagined it was Marcellus letting in the fresh air, and suddenly I felt hot. “We could be prisoners,” he went on, “or slaves like Gallia. You’re just lucky that Juba found you before someone else did!”

  My brother blew out the lamps, but in the darkness I could still see Juba’s eyes, full of anger and resentment.

  Gallia woke us while the sun was still rising. She placed a pitcher of water on our table, and two slaves brought in bowls of olives and cheese. But even the fresh bread, which smelled deliciously of herbs, couldn’t tempt me to move.

  “Up with the sun!” Gallia said forcefully. “Domina has clients waiting for her in the atrium, and her morning salutatio has already begun. Take off your tunics and put on your togas!”

  I opened one eye and saw that Alexander had placed a pillow over his head. “What is a salutatio?” I groaned.

  Gallia clapped her hands so loudly that Alexander jumped. “It is when clients come to the villa to ask for the money they are owed, or, more likely, favors. Every Roman with a few denarii to rub together has a salutatio in the morning. How else do the baker and the toga maker get paid?”

  Alexander sat up and eyed the food warily. “Olives and cheese?”

  “And bread. Come,” I said wearily, “I can already hear Marcellus.” He was singing in the hall, possibly something crass about the priestesses of Bacchus.

  “What are you doing?” Gallia exclaimed. “Up! Get up!”

  We both rose, and I looked at Alexander. “Our first day at school,” I said mockingly. “I wonder who will be more cheerful, Julia or Tiberius?”

  “Well, you know why she dislikes you.”

  “Who says Julia dislikes me?”

  My brother gave me a long look, and I followed him into the bathing room. “She’s already been engaged twice,” he said, washing his face in a bowl of lavender water. “Once to Antyllus, another time to Cotiso, the king of the Getae. But Octavian can’t betroth her to a foreign king, because now he needs an heir. So he’s hoping to marry her to Marcellus. She’s jealous that you get to live here with him.”

  “How do you know this?”

  He glared at me. “She told me last night. While you were at the bottom of the Palatine.”

  I looked at Gallia and asked if it was true. “Is Julia really engaged to Marcellus?”

  “Yes,” she said cautiously, and I put my face above the bowl of water so that no one could see my disappointment. “But engagements among Romans are like the wind,” she added. “They come and go.” She passed me a square of linen.

  “Why?”

  “That is simply how it is,” she explained while I dried my face. “Most women are married four and five times.”

  She handed me a small jar of toothpaste, and I paused to look at her. “But how can a woman love so many men?”

  “Your mother loved many men,” she pointed out.

  “My mother had two men,” I said sternly. “Julius Caesar and Marc Antony. That was it.”

  When Gallia looked disbelieving, my brother added, “It’s true. Whatever the gossip may be here in Rome, she had only two men, and she was loyal to our father until his death.”

  “Like a univira,” Gallia said reverently.

  I frowned.

  “A one-husband woman,” she explained. “Well, you will not find many of those in Rome. A woman may be married for fifteen years, but if her father decides on a better match.…” She snapped her fingers and I understood that to mean the marriage would be over. “It is also expected that a woman will remarry if her husband dies, even if she is fifty years old.”

  “And who expects this?” I asked with distaste. I began to scrub my teeth.

  Gallia held up her palms. “Romans. Men. It is the fathers and brothers who arrange these things. Domina Octavia is very fortunate not to have to remarry. Caesar has granted her special dispensation, and now she may keep her own house by herself.”

  She led us back into our chamber, and while Alexander and I put on freshly washed clothes, I thought of Juba’s angry accusation that I would never have to dirty my fingers in Rome. Perhaps not, but I would be expected to marry and then remarry at Caesar’s whim. And Alexander. … If Octavian kept Alexander alive once he turned fifteen, who knew what would happen to him? We would be a pair of dice, thrown anywhere across the board so long as it pleased him, then picked up and thrown again and again.

  Gallia tied the belt of my tunic, and I asked her quietly, “Are women of so little value in Rome?”

  “When a girl is born,” Gallia replied, “a period of mourning is begun. She is invisa, unwanted, valueless. She has no rights but what her father gives her.”

  “Was it that way in Gaul?”

  “No. But now we are worse than invisae. Worse even than thieves. My father was a king, but Caesar defeated him and brought so many of our people to Rome that slaves are worth only five hundred d
enarii now. Even a baker can afford to keep a girl to pleasure him.” I winced, and Gallia spoke solemnly. “Become useful to Caesar. Do not let him hear you wish to run away, because there is nowhere you can go,” she warned. “Find a skill.” She turned to my brother, whose toga was immaculate. If not for the white diadem in his hair, he might have been a Roman. “Let him see that you are both worth something to Rome.”

  “Why?” I asked bitterly. “So that I can be married off to a senator, and Alexander can be married to some fifty-year-old matron?”

  “No. So that you can return to Egypt,” she said firmly, and her voice became a whisper. “Why do you think that Dominus Juba keeps company with Caesar? He hopes to be made prefect of his father’s old kingdom.”

  “And Caesar would do that?” Alexander broke in.

  “I do not know. Not even Dominus Juba knows. There is nothing left of my kingdom.” Her eyes grew distant, and I knew she was seeing some faraway horror. “But yours remains, and if you are obedient—”

  There was a sharp knock on our door, then Marcellus bounded in. “Are we ready?” He smiled.

  Gallia put her hands on her hips. “What is the purpose of knocking, Domine, if you are not going to even wait for an answer?”

  Marcellus looked from my brother to me. “But I heard voices,” he said guiltily. “And how long could it take to put on a tunic?” His eyes swept over the pretty blue silk one that Octavia must have found for me, and he added, “A very pretty tunic.” My cheeks grew warm, and he offered me his arm. “To the Forum,” he said. “Of course, I don’t know what Magister Verrius thinks we’ll do today. The streets will be filled with so much noise he’ll have to shout over it just to be heard. But my mother insists.”

  “Doesn’t she want you to be a part of the celebrations?” my brother asked.

  “And miss school?” Marcellus asked sarcastically. “No. Besides, my uncle thinks one day of celebration is more than enough. He doesn’t want us to get used to so much excitement.”

  We followed Gallia through the villa, and as we crossed the atrium, I saw that Octavia’s clients filled every available bench.