The Egyptian Royals Collection

by Michelle Moran

  “Our mother died with the bite of a cobra,” I said sternly.

  “It’s still suicide. Livia’s father, my mother’s father, they were all forced to commit suicide. It’s how your life ends in Rome,” she said. “Unless you learn to be helpful in some way.”

  “And how will you help?”

  “I will marry who I’m told to for the good of Rome and be happy with it.”

  “Even if you don’t love him?” I exclaimed.

  “Of course.” Antonia watched us with her wide eyes, and when neither of us said anything, she added, “I hope you won’t repeat anything I’ve said.”

  “Of course not.” Alexander’s voice was firm, and when Antonia stood to go, he asked quietly, “Is this a warning?”

  I could see her cheeks redden even in the low light of our chamber. “I wasn’t sent by anyone.”

  “But this is your way of warning us,” he said.

  Her silence was as good as a yes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BEFORE THE sun had fully risen above the hills, I dressed myself in a light tunic and sandals.

  “I don’t know why you’re doing this,” Alexander groaned into his pillow. “It’s still dark outside.”

  “And this is the only time Vitruvius has for teaching me.”

  “But what do you hope to learn? You know everything.”

  I laughed, but quietly, so I wouldn’t wake Marcellus in the room next to ours. “Do you think I could build a temple myself?”

  “Of course not,” he mumbled. “That’s what workers are for.”

  “And how will I know if they’re doing it right?”

  Alexander opened his eyes to look at me. “You don’t really think you’re going to build?”

  “Why not?”

  He lifted his head. “Because we’re not in Egypt anymore!”

  “Someday we will be. And remember what Antonia said,” I warned. “It might do you some good to get up and come with me.”

  But he shook his head, and as he lay back down, I shut the door with more force than I intended. I made my way into the atrium, where clutches of lilies and sea daffodils trembled in the warm morning breeze. I could see candelabra burning in the library, and when I entered, Vitruvius motioned from his desk.

  “Come in,” he said wearily, and indicated a chair opposite him. While I seated myself, I saw him watching me, studying the Greek diadem in my hair, the Alexandrian pearls around my neck, and the Roman bulla below them. He heaved the weary sigh of a man whose patience has continually been tested, then folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “In addition to the Temple of Apollo,” he began, “which has taken up the better part of two years, I am working on Agrippa’s Pantheon and Octavia’s portico. Now I shall begin Caesar’s mausoleum. That leaves me very little time for anything else.”

  “I understand.”

  His dark eyes found mine in the dim light. “Do you?”

  “Yes. You are tutoring me as a favor to Octavia. But I’m not here to take up your time. I’m here to help you conserve it.”

  His brows shot up. “And how is that?”

  “By helping you design a mausoleum.” When I saw that he wanted to laugh, I added swiftly, “I know how to draw. I’ve also learned which kinds of stone are appropriate for building and where to use them.”

  “Black lavapesta?” he asked, to test me.

  “Flooring. It can be trimmed with white tesserae.”

  “Sarnus stone?”

  “Flakes can be used on a ceiling to create the impression of an indoor cave.”

  “Timber-framed rubble and mortar?”

  I grinned. “Houses too cheap to last the first winter.”

  Vitruvius sat back and unfolded his hands. “Where did you learn this?”

  “In Alexandria. We could choose some of the subjects we wanted to study in the Museion, and I chose architecture.”

  He watched me with interest. “And you’re determined, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I know my drawings are pretty, but they aren’t accurate. I want to be able to draw real plans.”

  “That takes a knowledge of mathematics. Specifically geometry.”

  “Which I’ve learned.”

  “So why didn’t your tutors show you how to apply it to building?” he asked.

  “They would have, but my education in the Museion was cut short.” I didn’t need to say why.

  He sighed again, then held out his hand. “Let’s begin with the mausoleum.”

  Immediately, I opened my book of sketches to the page with the best drawing of my mother’s mausoleum. “She built it entirely of white marble,” I said, passing my book to him. “The floors had inlays of mother-of-pearl, and the columns were carved into caryatids.”

  He studied the image. “You say it was built entirely of marble?”

  I nodded.

  “And was there something in front? A tall, pointed pillar?”

  “Yes. Two obelisks. Both made of granite.”

  Vitruvius took out a stylus and began to write quickly. “What color were they?”

  “Red. Why? Does Caesar want obelisks?”

  “He wants exactly what he saw in Alexandria, with very few changes.”

  “I can tell you everything,” I promised, and by that afternoon I was so full of my own success with Vitruvius that I didn’t even mind when Julia insisted I paint her eyes exactly how my mother painted hers.

  “I want to look like an Egyptian queen,” she said, sitting in my bathing room while Gallia painstakingly beaded her hair.

  “You understand that before we go to the theater, Domina, all of these beads must be taken out?”

  “Yes,” she said impatiently. “But just this once.… And then perhaps Selene can draw me.”

  “I don’t sketch people!”

  “But you draw buildings,” she pointed out. “And how else am I supposed to remember this?”

  “I don’t know. Look in the mirror.”

  “Please,” she begged. “I can’t use a real painter. My father would find out. And after all this trouble Gallia’s gone to.” She pouted, and when I looked at Gallia, I saw that I had no choice. Julia would only make Gallia do it over again until I agreed.

  I fetched my book of sketches and cursed silently at the idea that one of my pages would have to be spent on Julia. And she would probably want to keep it as well, which would mean tearing a piece from the book.

  “Will it be in color?” Julia asked when I returned.

  “No. Black and white.”

  “But how will I remember the faience beads and paint?”

  “By using your imagination.” I twisted the cap off a bottle of ink and carefully dipped my reed pen inside.

  Julia studied herself in the mirror while I drew. “I should have been born in Egypt,” she said longingly.

  “Then you would be me, and would have lost your kingdom.”

  “But you’re happy here, aren’t you?” She looked back at me through a fringe of dark lashes, completely unaware of what Alexander and I had suffered.

  Gallia clicked her tongue. “She is a prisoner, Domina.”

  “But she’s living in Octavia’s villa,” Julia protested. “She’s going to the ludus and studying architecture.”

  “In Rome,” Gallia rejoined. “Her home is in Egypt.”

  Julia sighed. “My home should have been in Egypt,” she repeated as Gallia strung the last bead onto her hair. She rose from her chair and studied herself in the polished bronze. “No wonder you miss Alexandria,” she said thoughtlessly. The swath of violet silk she had purchased had been sewn into a pair of tunics, and while mine hung straight and shapeless as a stick, hers clung to the emerging curves of her body. I had combined red ochre with blue azurite to make a violet paint for her eyelids, and with the faience beads in her hair, she did look like a princess. “Give me your diadem,” she said suddenly, and when I hesitated, she frowned. “It’s just for the sketch.”

  I took off the pearl ban
d that had once symbolized my right to rule over the kingdoms of Cyrenaica and Libya, and although Gallia’s eyes narrowed with disapproval, I handed it to Julia.

  She nestled it among her black curls. “Is this how your mother looked?” she whispered.

  I knew the answer she wanted. “Yes.”

  “And are you drawing the diadem?”

  “If you stay still.”

  “Should I sit or stand?”

  I hesitated, looking down at my drawing. “Keep standing. I’ll include your sandals as well.”

  I was surprised by how still she could be when she wanted something. She stood patiently while I drew the folds in her tunic, then turned quietly when I asked to see her beaded hair in profile. When at last I said, “Finished,” she clapped her hands together.

  “I want to see!” she exclaimed, and when I turned the book toward her, she drew in her breath. She looked first at Gallia, then at me. “Am I really that beautiful?”

  I set my jaw. “Ink drawings are always flattering.”

  “But you’ll color it, won’t you?”

  “With what?”

  “I’ll have a slave send over paints. Look how beautiful it already is, and think how pretty it will be in color.”

  A sharp knock on the door cut off my protest. “Quick!” I cried. “What if it’s Octavia?”

  But Julia didn’t move. “It isn’t. It’s Marcellus. Gallia,” she said merrily, “let him in!”

  I stared at Julia. “How do you know?”

  She smiled. “Because I told him to come.”

  Marcellus and Alexander entered, and when my brother saw Julia in my crown, he paused. “Is that your diadem?”

  “Just for a moment,” I said quickly.

  Marcellus gave a low whistle, and Julia turned for him.

  “Well, what do you think?” she asked.

  “As beautiful as Selene.”

  Julia’s eyes flashed angrily in my direction. “You mean you think we look alike?”

  “Of course. I mean no. You’re the most beautiful princess of all!” But he winked at me when he said it, and I felt a strange fluttering in my chest.

  She grinned. “And what do you think of my paints?”

  “I hope they wash off,” he said seriously. “Because my mother is coming.”

  Julia gave a small shriek of terror, then pushed my diadem at me and fled back into the bathing room. “Hurry!” she cried. “The beads!”

  Marcellus laughed while Julia scrubbed at her face. “What did you think would happen?” he asked.

  “She’s supposed to be doing charity work in the Subura. Don’t just stand there. Help!”

  The four of us rushed to take off the beads, and Gallia hid them in a small jar next to my couch.

  “Not with Selene,” Julia complained. “I want them!”

  “You should keep them here until my mother leaves,” Marcellus suggested. “Everything makes her suspicious lately.”

  Julia’s voice was resentful. “What do you mean?”

  Both Alexander and I caught Marcellus’s uneasy glance at Gallia. “Something about the Red Eagle,” he said.

  “What? Does she think he’s hiding in a jar?”

  “No. But trust me, it’s better this way.”

  Octavia opened the door to our chamber, then stepped back when she saw the five of us together. “Gallia, what is this?”

  “They are preparing for the theater, Domina,” she said lightly.

  “Do you like my tunic?” Julia asked. She spun around, and there was no evidence on her face that she had been wearing red ochre just a few moments before.

  “Is that a new purchase?” Octavia frowned.

  “Yesterday. Selene has one as well. There’s enough material for Antonia, if you like.”

  Octavia smiled thinly. “Thank you, but I think something more modest suits her better.”

  Julia wasn’t offended. “So what play are we going to see?”

  “Amphitruo,” Octavia replied, her eyes searching the room as if she could sense that something was amiss.

  “And do you know who’s coming?” Marcellus asked, taking her arm and steering her from our chamber.

  “Agrippa, Juba, Maecenas, Terentilla. And, Julia, you’ll be happy to know that Horatia will probably be there with Pollio.”

  Marcellus glanced back at Julia, and his look was pitying.

  “Why? Who’s Horatia?” my brother asked.

  Julia’s gaze narrowed. “She used to go to the ludus with us. But Livia arranged her marriage last year.”

  “So what’s wrong with that?”

  “Her husband is a disgusting old man—and she was only thirteen.”

  I exchanged a look with Alexander as we left the chamber.

  “Why would Livia do that?” he asked nervously.

  “Because Horatia was my closest friend. She even taught me to swim,” Julia whispered, and her eyes shone with tears.

  “And for that she arranged a terrible marriage?”

  “She would have arranged a marriage with Cerberus if he had been available. And now Horatia’s pregnant with an old merchant’s child.”

  We reached the portico, where half a dozen curtained litters were waiting, and I shared one with Julia. We had taken an early meal in the triclinium, and the setting sun burnished our curtains red and gold.

  “If I were a better person,” Julia said suddenly, “I would never have let you paint my face.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if Livia ever discovered it, she would do the same thing to you.”

  I sat straighter against the cushions. “I would never let that happen.”

  Julia laughed mirthlessly. “There’d be nothing you could do. Even Octavia can’t change my father’s mind once it’s made up. And Livia’s there all the time,” she added, “whispering into his ear like Boreas.” I wondered how she knew about the Greek god of the north wind, and before I could ask, Julia said sharply, “I’m not a complete fool. I listen.” We rode the rest of the way in silence, and when we reached the Campus Martius and the litters stopped, Julia explained, “We walk from here. My father thinks it looks better to the plebs if we arrive on foot.”

  When the six slaves lowered our litter to the ground, I parted the curtains and was helped up by Marcellus. He saw the look on my face and asked, “A happy ride with Julia, then?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Julia said accusingly.

  “Oh, cheer up. Can you remember the last time we went to the theater?”

  “Before my father left for Egypt.”

  “That’s right. And even if Horatia is married to Pot-Bellied Pollio, at least she has the denarii to come.”

  “If she had any sense, she’d use it to buy poison for him.”

  Marcellus shrugged. “He’ll be dead before she’s twenty-five. And then she can remarry.”

  “The two of you are disgusting,” Tiberius said.

  I hadn’t noticed that he was walking behind us with his younger brother. Julia didn’t bother to turn around, but Marcellus said swiftly, “Perhaps your mother can marry you off to some old matron with a sagging cunnus, and we can see how you’d like it.”

  Seeing my look, Alexander cut his laughter short. “Octavian is in front of us,” I said in Parthian. “And everyone else.” Twenty soldiers were escorting us to the theater, and Octavian was flanked by Agrippa and Juba. Their long togas flapped in the late summer’s breeze, but beneath them, I could see the shadow of chain mail. Immediately, my brother sobered.

  We passed beneath a stunning marble arch into the theater, where terraced stone benches had been built into the hill. Behind them stretched a polished mosaic depicting the masks of comedy and tragedy. On either side of the theater were well-tended gardens and colonnades. Everything looked new, or at least well-preserved. “When was this built?” I asked Marcellus.

  “Twenty-five years ago.”

  “By whom?”

  “Pompey. He was Julius’s great rival. Ston
e theaters were forbidden in Rome, so he built this outside the walls, and even then the people complained. So he added a temple.” I followed his gaze to the Temple of Venus, perched above the seats of the theater. “Notice how the seats are arranged?” he asked. “They’re supposed to look like a grand staircase to the temple.” He laughed. “It’s how he convinced them to build. The workers were afraid of angering the gods! Can you imagine such foolishness?” He had spoken too loudly, and his mother turned. Marcellus lowered his voice. “And that’s where Julius Caesar was killed.” He pointed to the rear of the theater.

  “I thought he was murdered in the Senate,” Alexander said.

  “Sometimes the Senate would meet here in the Curia.”

  “That’s why my father thinks it’s bad luck here,” Julia said suddenly. “And why he takes so many soldiers.”

  I saw no sign of Octavian’s nervousness as we approached the padded benches that had been reserved for us in the first row. Instead, he chatted with Terentilla, and I could see from the look on Livia’s face that a storm was about to break. As I took my place between Alexander and Octavia, I heard Livia suggest, “Perhaps we women should set an example for the rest of Rome and take our seats in the upper tiers.” When Octavian looked uncertain, she continued, “You are Caesar now. Women are not allowed to sit with men in the stadia. Why should it be allowed in the theater?”

  “Because we are the ruling family of Rome,” Octavia said, overruling her, “and we know how to conduct ourselves in public.”

  “My sister is right. Octavia is an example to all of Rome for charity and virtue. As are you,” Octavian amended.

  “And Terentilla?” Livia asked him with a sweetness that was terrifying. “Is she a part of this family?”

  Octavian set his jaw. “Anyone married to Maecenas is family.”

  A young girl was coming toward us, holding her swollen belly, and suddenly Livia’s mood brightened considerably. “Horatia!”

  The girl did her best to return Livia’s smile. Her seat was next to Julia’s, on the farthest end of the bench, but she stopped before Octavian to greet him properly.