The Egyptian Royals Collection

by Michelle Moran

  ignobilis. Of low birth.

  judices. The jurors in a public trial, usually comprising of citizens, and drawn from the higher social orders. The singular is judex.

  kyphi. Incense, used for medical purposes and in Egyptian religious rites.

  lararium. A small shrine room for honoring the household’s gods.

  Lares. The household gods or protective spirits that were honored in the lararium.

  Liberalia. The festival of Liber Pater and his consort Libera, celebrated on March 17. This was also the day when boys who had come of age would put aside their bullae.

  liberatores. Liberators.

  ludus. School. Also used to refer to the public games that were intended to serve as a festival of thanks to the gods. The plural is ludi.

  lupa. She-wolf. A derogatory term for a prostitute. The plural is lupae.

  lupanar. A brothel.

  Lupercalia. A pastoral festival held February 13–15.

  lustratio. A purification ceremony, often involving animal sacrifice, to purify people (especially newborns) as well as places, crops, armies, and buildings.

  Mare Superum. The Adriatic Sea.

  nemes headdress. The blue-and-gold-striped head cloth worn by Pharaohs of ancient Egypt (prior to action in story).

  nobilitas. Nobility.

  odeum. A building used for musical and theatrical events. The plural is odea.

  ofella. The ancient Roman version of pizza made of baked dough but without the tomatoes, which were unknown to the Romans at that time. The plural is ofellae.

  ornatrix. A woman skilled in hair arrangement and makeup.

  palla. A shawl worn over the arms and shoulders.

  pilum. A long spear or a javelin.

  pleb. Plebian; member of the lower classes.

  portico. The roofed entrance porch at the front of a building.

  rostrum. Speaking platform in the Senate, made from the prows of ships that the Romans captured in various sea battles.

  Salii: A group of young male priests of Mars, the Roman god of war.

  salve. Greetings. Salvete is the form used in addressing more than one person.

  silphium. An extinct plant commonly referred to as a “giant fennel.” The Roman author Pliny the Elder wrote about its use as an herbal contraceptive.

  sparsor. The person whose job it was at the races to douse the smoking wheels of a chariot with water.

  spelt-cake. A cake made from a precursor to modern strains of wheat.

  spina. The barrier in the center of the Circus Maximus; it separated the outbound and inbound laps of the race.

  SPQR. Senatus Populusque Romanus, or “the Senate and People of Rome.” This ubiquitous “signature” of the Roman state appeared on legionary standards, documents, coins, and a great deal more.

  stadia. Plural form for a Roman measure of distance; one stadium was 200–210 yards in length.

  stola. A long, pleated dress worn over the tunic; the traditional garment of Roman women.

  stylus. A metal writing implement, used to inscribe on wax tablets. The reverse, flat end of the stylus could be used to scratch and flatten, or “erase,” mistakes.

  taberna. A shop or alehouse. The plural is tabernae.

  tablet. A wax writing pad that could be reused by warming the tablet and melting the wax.

  thalamegos. A type of ancient Greek ship. The name means “cabin-carrier.”

  tiet. The sacred knot of the Egyptian goddess Isis.

  toga praetexta. A long woolen robe, worn by Roman citizens as a tunic. The praetexta had a single crimson stripe, and was often worn by magistrates, by priests, and by boys too young for the toga virilis.

  tollere liberos. The lifting of a newborn into the air by its father, signifying his acceptance of it into the family.

  triclinium. The dining room in a Roman household, so named for the three couches on which diners reclined and ate.

  tunic. A garment worn by both men and women in ancient Rome, either under the toga or by itself.

  Ubi tu es Agrippa, ego Claudia. “Where you are Agrippa, I am Claudia.”

  umbraculum. An umbrella or parasol, typically carried by slaves for their wealthy Roman mistresses.

  univira. A woman who has had only one husband.

  vale. Farewell. Valete is the form used in addressing more than one person.

  vestibulum. The narrow hallway that connected the atrium of a Roman house with the street outside. These hallways often contained welcoming messages or decorations in the form of mosaics or murals.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I owe the greatest thanks possible to my infinitely patient and incredibly supportive husband, Matthew. After more than a decade together, you still inspire me to choose the great love stories of history to write about. To my mother and brother, who have always been supportive of my writing career, I am deeply indebted to you both. And to my father, who instilled in me his love of ancient Roman history—I only wish you could have been here to read this. I think you would have enjoyed a break from your heavy ancient tomes to do some lighter reading, and I feel sure that you would have loved the Red Eagle, given your interest in the doomed Spartacus and his slave revolt. An homage to the dashing heroes who populate the works of Baroness Emmuska Orczy, Alexandre Dumas, and Barbara Michaels, the antics of the Red Eagle—who was based on historical rebels who came before and after him—would have pleased you no end. Thank you for always taking the time to teach me and for being such a wonderful father.

  I must also mention my debt of gratitude to the brilliant classics scholar, Dr. James (Jim) T. McDonough Jr., and his wife, Zaida, who were there to answer my many questions about ancient Rome. Jim, your careful notes and historical advice were absolutely invaluable to me, and this novel is immensely richer for your detailed input. Any mistakes are entirely mine.

  For those who would like to read more about Selene’s life, I highly recommend Duane W. Roller’s excellent book The World of Juba II and Kleopatra Selene. Thank you so much, Duane, for taking the time to answer my questions about Selene’s world. And to Jon Corelis, whose translation of Ovid’s poem “Disappointment” appears in the book, I am incredibly thankful. Your website is a gold mine, and your translations inspired me during many a marathon writing session.

  To my former students Amalia Calvillo, Chantelle Doss, Brynn Grawe, George Mejia, Ashley Turner, and Ashley Williamson, who helped me sort through my towering piles of research on such subjects as fermented fish sauce and peacock brains, I am deeply appreciative. If I can persuade you to be my research assistants for my next book, I promise to give you notes on things that are much less revolting! And to Shaun Venish, whose intricate map of Augustus’s Rome appears at the front of the book, I am in awe of your talents. (An interactive version can be found on my website.)

  Of course, no acknowledgments page would ever be complete if it did not recognize the editors who molded the clay into something worth reading. Heather Proulx and Suzanne O’Neill have been absolutely magnificent, and I am a lucky author indeed to have had their discerning eyes on my manuscript. It’s not all the time that an author can say she’s found a great friend in her editor, so, Heather, I know how lucky I am to be working with you! And I am very much looking forward to exploring the world of Madame Tussaud in our next book together.

  I also owe my gratitude to the wonderful copy editor Janet Fletcher, who worked tremendously hard to make this novel gleam. And, of course, a huge thank-you goes to Crown’s amazing team: Patty Berg, Tina Constable, Dyana Messina, Jennifer O’Connor, and the many people who have worked behind the scenes. I am deeply grateful to Allison McCabe, who originally purchased Cleopatra’s Daughter for Random House. And I’d like to thank my agent, Anna Ghosh, as well as my foreign rights agent, Danny Baror, who has seen to it that my novels can be read in more than twenty languages. With every published book, an author is indebted to more people than he or she can ever name. So to everyone who helped to bring Cleopatra’s Daught
er to readers around the world, thank you so much.

  Reading Group Guide for

  CLEOPATRA’S

  DAUGHTER

  1. What, if any, elements of the Ancient Roman world seem similar to life today?

  2. In the beginning of the novel, Octavian comes across as a ruthless man willing to do whatever it takes to stay in power. Does anything change as the story progresses? How do you feel about him in the end? Did your feelings change at all? Why do you think he treats Selene the way he does as the novel closes?

  3. Selene has a complex relationship with Julia. Do her feelings about Julia change during the course of the novel? If so, why?

  4. Octavian/Augustus governed Rome for decades; sometimes with guile, often with ruthless force. In the novel, we see his use of assassinations (of rivals, real and imagined) as well as collective punishment following the attempt on his life. Can this leadership style be justified by his focus on order and stability? In their quest for these, what boundaries should leaders never cross?

  5. Selene has two romantic interests in the novel. How does her attitude and character change as she matures and passes from one romance to the other?

  6. Octavia shows tremendous compassion for the adopted children placed in her care. How would you have responded to a betrayal like that of Antony?

  7. The slave trials described in the novel were real examples of Roman collective punishment. How does the administration of justice in classical times differ from the modern ones we know today?

  8. Was the Roman system of law, administration, learning, and empire a net gain or a net loss for those that it conquered?

  9. Egypt has always fascinated outsiders, including, in this novel, Julia. Why?

  10. Omens, superstitions, and protection by family spirits play a significant part in the novel and in Roman life. What is the source of these widespread human traditions, and how do such emotions and habits express themselves today?

  11. How does the Roman attitude toward marriage, sex, and promiscuity compare to our own?

  Go to the next page to read the first three chapters of Michelle Moran’s latest novel:

  Madame Tussaud

  $25.00 hardcover (Canada: $28.95)

  ISBN 978-0-307-58865-4

  Chapter 1

  Paris

  DECEMBER 12, 1788

  ALTHOUGH IT IS MID-DECEMBER AND EVERYONE WITH SENSE is huddled near a fire, more than two dozen women are pressed together in Rose Bertin’s shop, Le Grand Mogol. They are heating themselves by the handsome bronze lamps, but I do not go inside. These are women of powdered poufs and ermine cloaks, whereas I am a woman of ribbons and wool. So I wait on the street while they shop in the warmth of the queen’s favorite store. I watch from outside as a girl picks out a showy pink hat. It’s too pale for her skin, but her mother nods and Rose Bertin claps her hands eagerly. She will not be so eager when she notices me. I have come here every month for a year with the same request. But this time I am certain Rose will agree, for I am prepared to offer her something that only princes and murderers possess. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.

  I stamp my feet on the slick cobblestones of the Rue Saint-Honoré. My breath appears as a white fog in the morning air. This is the harshest winter in memory, and it has come on the heels of a poor summer harvest. Thousands will die in Paris, some of the cold, others of starvation. The king and queen have gifted the city as much firewood as they can spare from Versailles. In thanks, the people have built an obelisk made entirely of snow; it is the only monument they can afford. I look down the street, expecting to see the fish sellers at their carts. But even the merchants have fled the cold, leaving nothing but the stink of the sea behind them.

  When the last customer exits Le Grand Mogol, I hurry inside. I shake the rain from my cloak and inhale the warm scent of cinnamon from the fire. As always, I am in awe of what Rose Bertin has accomplished in such a small space. Wide, gilded mirrors give the impression that the shop is larger than it really is, and the candles flickering from the chandeliers cast a burnished glow across the oil paintings and embroidered settees. It’s like entering a comtesse’s salon, and this is the effect we have tried for in my uncle’s museum. Intimate rooms where the nobility will not feel out of place. Although I could never afford the bonnets on these shelves—let alone the silk dresses of robin’s-egg blue or apple green—I come here to see the new styles so that I can copy them later. After all, that is our exhibition’s greatest attraction. Women who are too poor to travel to Versailles can see the royal family in wax, each of them wearing the latest fashions.

  “Madame?” I venture, closing the door behind me.

  Rose Bertin turns, and her high-pitched welcome tells me that she expects another woman in ermine. When I emerge from the shadows in wool, her voice drops. “Mademoiselle Grosholtz,” she says, disappointed. “I gave you my answer last month.” She crosses her arms over her chest. Everything about Rose Bertin is large. Her hips, her hair, the satin bows that cascade down the sides of her dress.

  “Then perhaps you’ve changed your mind,” I say quickly. “I know you have the ear of the queen. They say that there’s no one else she trusts more.”

  “And you’re not the only one begging favors of me,” she snaps.

  “But we’re good patrons.”

  “Your uncle bought two dresses from me.”

  “We would buy more if business was better.” This isn’t a lie. In eighteen days I will be twenty-eight, but there is nothing of value I own in this world except the wax figures that I’ve created for my uncle’s exhibition. I am an inexpensive niece to maintain. I don’t ask for any of the embellishments in Le Journal des Dames, or for pricey chemise gowns trimmed in pearls. But if I had the livres, I would spend them in dressing the figures of our museum. There is no need for me to wear gemstones and lace, but our patrons come to the Salon de Cire to see the finery of kings. If I could, I would gather up every silk fan and furbelow in Rose Bertin’s shop, and our Salon would rival her own. But we don’t have that kind of money. We are showmen, only a little better-off than the circus performers who exhibit next door. “Think of it,” I say eagerly. “I could arrange a special tableau for her visit. An image of the queen sitting in her dressing room. With you by her side. The Queen and Her Minister of Fashion,” I tell her.

  Rose’s lips twitch upward. Although Minister of Fashion is an insult the papers use to criticize her influence over Marie Antoinette, it’s not far from the truth, and she knows this. She hesitates. It is one thing to have your name in the papers, but to be immortalized in wax … That is something reserved only for royals and criminals, and she is neither. “So what would you have me say?” she asks slowly.

  My heart beats quickly. Even if the queen dislikes what I’ve done—and she won’t, I know she won’t, not when I’ve taken such pains to get the blue of her eyes just right—the fact that she has personally come to see her wax model will change everything. Our exhibition will be included in the finest guidebooks to Paris. We’ll earn a place in every Catalog of Amusements printed in France. But most important, we’ll be associated with Marie Antoinette. Even after all of the scandals that have attached themselves to her name, there is only good business to be had by entertaining Their Majesties. “Just tell her that you’ve been to the Salon de Cire. You have, haven’t you?”

  “Of course.” Rose Bertin is not a woman to miss anything. Even a wax show on the Boulevard du Temple. “It was attractive.” She adds belatedly, “In its way.”

  “So tell that to the queen. Tell her I’ve modeled the busts of Voltaire, Rousseau, Benjamin Franklin. Tell her there will be several of her. And you.”

  Rose is silent. Then finally, she says, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter 2

  DECEMBER 21, 1788

  What is the Third Estate? Everything.

  —ABBÉ SIEYÈS, PAMPHLETEER

  WHEN THE LETTER COMES, I AM SITTING UPSTAIRS IN MY uncle’s salon. Thirty wooden
steps divide the world of the wax museum on the first floor of our home from the richly paneled rooms where we live upstairs. I have seen enough houses of showmen and performers to know that we are fortunate. We live like merchants, with sturdy mahogany furniture and good china for guests. But if not for Curtius’s association with the Prince de Condé when both men were young, none of this would be.

  My uncle was living in Switzerland when the cousin of King Louis XV visited his shop and saw what Curtius could do with wax. Impressed, the prince brought him to Paris and commissioned an entire collection of miniatures. But these were not like any other miniatures. De Condé wanted nude replicas of the women in the hundreds of portraits he had saved; blond, brunette, and auburn conquests from all across Europe. When the prince began showing off his collection, Curtius’s reputation grew. Before long, my uncle found himself hosting one of the most popular salons in Paris from his new apartment on the Rue Saint-Honoré. Of course, anyone—men, women, widowers, courtesans—may host their own salon, but who will come to enjoy the coffee and gossip depends entirely on the host’s influence and importance.