Cleopatra’s Daughter: A Novel (34 page)

I was quiet for a moment. After all of the unhappiness my mother and father had brought into her life, it was surprising that Octavia treated us with any kindness at all.

My brother shook his head. “I have no idea why your mother treats us so well.”

“She loves children,” Marcellus said simply. “Wait until you meet my older sisters. We’re all very similar.”

“You mean they gamble?” Tiberius asked.

“He means they’re both blond with blue eyes,” Julia said, ignoring Tiberius’s quip. “They’re his only full sisters.” She turned to me and added brightly, “You should help us with the planning.”

“Oh yes,” Marcellus said. “It’s so much fun. Much better than watching the races, which is what we
could
be doing.”

Julia swatted him. “Alexander enjoys it.”

“Because he likes you girls. I can’t stand all the talk of hairnets and paint.”

“Come help us,” she begged me. “Vitruvius doesn’t need you every day.”

“He probably doesn’t need me at all.”

“Nonsense,” my brother said as we walked. Across the courtyard, Gallia and Juba were waiting for us, bundled into their warmest winter cloaks. “Just yesterday,” Alexander boasted, “he told her that when the weather turns, he’ll be taking her with him on his inspections.”

“A girl?”
Tiberius cried.

“What does that matter?” Julia retorted.

“What business does a girl have with construction? Look at her! She can’t even lift a brick.”

“I can take measurements,” I said sharply. “And I can sketch a design for the flooring or the rooftop better than any of Vitruvius’s old men.”

Tiberius laughed. “So what is Vitruvius going to do? Introduce you as his apprentice?”

“I’ll be going in the mornings before the builders get to work.”

He smiled. “So he
is
ashamed.”

“Leave her alone,” Marcellus warned.

“Does that mean you won’t help us?” Julia pouted.

“Yes,” I said firmly.

By the time we arrived home on the Palatine, half a dozen litters crowded the portico of Octavia’s villa.

“The priestesses are here,” Gallia warned. “Be silent when you enter.”

Juba and Tiberius followed us into the atrium, where the priestesses of Juno had arranged themselves around a brazier. Octavia held an unfurled scroll above the flames, while Agrippa fanned the fire with his hand.

“What are they doing?” I whispered.

Julia leaned over so that her lips were at my ear. “The scroll Octavia is holding is a calendar. When the priestesses decide there has been enough smoke, they will interpret the burn marks and determine which days are
dies nefasti.”

I drew away from her. “Bad-luck days?”

“March, May, and all of June are unsuitable for weddings. So are the Kalends, the Nones, and the Ides of any month, and any day following those. And no one can be married on the day of any religious festival.”

“Is it really bad luck?”

She rolled her eyes. We listened as the priestesses chanted to Juno, the goddess of motherhood and marriage. Octavian, holding a wax tablet and a stylus, stood next to his sister. He was wearing a heavy fur cloak that was too big around his shoulders. I could see that he was bitterly cold, keeping away from the open roof, where rain was falling into the icy pool. His face had turned as white as his cloak, and the only color to be seen in it was the gray of his eyes.

“That is enough,” one of the priestesses said.

Octavia immediately withdrew the calendar, and the priestess who had spoken held it up to the dim light from above. The other women stopped chanting, and the only sound was the patter of rain.

“Not February second,” she said.

Octavian scribbled something with his stylus, and I noticed that the polished ivory brace on his right hand now extended all the way up his arm.

“Is your father well?” Alexander whispered to Julia.

She nodded. “He is like this every winter.”

Even on the worst days in Alexandria, I had never seen my father look so weak.

“Not February tenth,” the priestess said.

Octavian made another mark on his tablet.

“The best day in February will be the twelfth.”

Octavian looked up from his tablet. “The day before Lupercalia?” he challenged.

The priestess would have responded, but suddenly lightning cracked through the sky and thunder shook the walls of the atrium.

“The augurs!” Octavian shouted. “Go to the
collegium
and bring the augurs!”

Alexander turned to Marcellus. “What’s happening?”

“Thunder,” he replied fearfully. “It’s a terrible omen.”

Lightning flashed again, and the thunder clapped, bringing with it a fresh torrent of rain. Octavia said curtly, “Get to the library!”

We crowded into the library, where Juba helped Octavia light the oil lamps until the paneled room glowed a burnished orange. The priestesses huddled together near the brazier, but it was the woman who had spoken who looked the most fearful. If the augurs came and declared that the gods were upset with her pronouncement, it might mean any number of terrible things for her.

“What does this portend?” Octavian asked. He was looking at Juba, who had taken a seat next to the brazier. Outside, rain poured into the fountains and pool.

“We should wait for the augurs,” Juba said.

I was close enough to hear Tiberius whisper to Juba, “You don’t really believe it means anything? It’s the precursor of rain. That’s it!”

“The augurs are coming,” Juba said firmly.

“But you don’t believe them! Tell the truth. Even Cicero mocked the augurs.”

“And Cicero ended his days with his head on the rostrum,” Juba said forcefully.

Some of the priestesses whimpered, and an uneasy silence fell over the library. I imagined the augurs tucked in comfortably on their couches, buried beneath heavy piles of blankets until a slave summoned them into the rain and wind. What sort of mood would they be in when they arrived? Angry enough to condemn a priestess of Juno?

When a slave appeared at the door, everyone sat up. “They’re here, Domine.”

Octavian rose. “Bring them in!” He looked at Agrippa. “Nothing must go wrong with this marriage. It must be blessed by all of the gods.”

The first augur who entered looked eager to please. He shepherded
the others inside the crowded library, and addressed his first question to Octavian. “We are humbled to be of service, Caesar. Is it the thunder that brings us here today?”

The priestess of Juno explained what had happened, and Octavian added, “As soon as she made the pronouncement, it came. There had been no thunder the entire morning. For days, there hasn’t been any lightning.”

“And where did the lightning come from?” the augur asked.

“The east,” Juba said.

Octavian frowned. “I didn’t see that.”

“Because you were writing. I was watching the skies.”

The first augur lifted his arms. “Then it is a sign of blessing!”

Octavia placed her hand on her heart, and her brother persisted, “Even though the chosen day is the day before Lupercalia?”

A second augur nodded. “The gods have spoken.”

Tiberius gave Juba a triumphant glance, but Juba was too polite to respond with anything but a curt nod.
He’s lying
, I thought.
He doesn’t believe in this and just wants it to be done. No one can know whether it came from the east or the west
. But no one said anything, and Agrippa’s wedding date was set for the twelfth day of February.

February 12, 28 BC

CLAUDIA STOOD
in the middle of her mother’s chamber while a dozen slaves rushed around, plaiting her hair into six even braids and fastening her crimson veil with flowers. She was giddy and shy, always blushing and surprisingly naïve for a nineteen-year-old woman. Perhaps because her skin was so light, every passing emotion colored her face a curious shade of pink. It would begin in her cheeks, then spread to her nose, her ears, and finally her neck. I noticed that Marcella had the same coloring, as if her face were an open scroll waiting to be read.

“The Romans certainly do things differently than the Egyptians,” Alexander remarked.

“Why? What do Egyptians do for marriage?” Claudia asked.

“The bride and groom take a special bath.”

“Together?” she cried.

Julia smiled. “How lovely.”

“How vulgar,” Livia retorted, but no one was listening. She had complained that my brother was allowed in the chamber while Claudia’s veil was being fitted, but Octavia had rightly pointed out that it was no different than watching someone put on a cloak. And there
was no more skin showing on Claudia than if she had been mummified in linen like Osiris. Her long tunic was fastened at the waist by a girdle, and like a vestal virgin, she wore her veil so that it covered the rest of her body, including the top half of her face.

“Don’t be nervous,” Octavia murmured. “Agrippa is one of the finest men in Rome.” She turned to Marcella, who was seventeen. “And you will be next.”

Marcella nodded sadly.

“You aren’t going to be lonely without me?” Claudia worried. “You can come and live with me if you get tired of Pompeii.”

“And get in the way of your baths?” Marcella teased. “No, our aunt needs me.”

“Then you will kiss her for me, won’t you? And tell her I love her, even as a matron?” I could hear that Claudia was about to cry, and her sister wrapped her arms around Claudia’s waist.

“Of course I’ll tell her.”

I noticed that Octavia’s eyes looked sad. After so many years of separation, she had ceased to be like a mother to them. She had lost that special bond as surely as Horatia had lost Gaia.

Claudia lifted the hem of her tunic so that she could walk without tripping, and a pair of crimson sandals peeked out. She held out her arms so that we could see.

“Beautiful,” Alexander said.

“As beautiful as an Egyptian bride?”

“Even prettier,” he lied.

We could hear the music and laughing from the atrium, where the pool was illuminated by floating lamps and the dusk was held at bay by hundreds of candelabra. There was no special procession as there was in Egypt. We simply walked with the bride to the granite altar that Octavia’s slaves had carried in. An ewe had been slaughtered earlier, so that the augurs could again declare this a favorable day.

“Look at all the people,” Claudia said anxiously.

Patricians from all across Rome had come for the evening’s celebration, and Octavia said, “This is an important marriage. If something were to happen to my brother, who do you think would take his place? Marcellus is still too young.” She squeezed her daughter’s hand, and Agrippa approached the altar with Octavian and Juba at his side. His eight-year-old daughter, Vipsania, stood on his right, looking curiously at the woman who was to become her stepmother.

“She’s lucky,” Julia whispered, noting the direction of my gaze. “Claudia will be good to her.”

The laughter in the atrium grew muted, and senators in their best togas stepped closer to the altar to hear what was being said.

“Ubi tu es Agrippa, ego Claudia.”

“Ubi tu es Claudia, ego Agrippa.”
Agrippa raised Claudia’s veil, and the entire atrium shouted
“Feliciter!”

“That’s it?” Alexander asked incredulously. “All of that preparation for this?”

Julia raised her arms and clapped. “It’s done!”

Flute players led the way to the triclinium, where the couches were draped in saffron-dyed fleece to match the bride’s attire. A tall spelt-cake had been decorated with flowers, and as I bent to inhale the fragrance, Livia said merrily, “Soon it will be you.” When I straightened, she called to the old man next to me, “Catullus, have you met Princess Selene?” The deep black of his eyes was masked by a rheumy film, and his hands shook with some ailment of age.

The old senator lowered his cup of wine to smile. “A pleasure.”

“Such a pretty girl, isn’t she? Her mother had four children, and probably could have had more.”

Catullus raised his brows.