Cleopatra’s Daughter: A Novel (9 page)

I nodded, pretending to understand. “So what do they all do?”

“Meet in the Senate house. Argue about politics. Make decisions about taxes or free grain. My uncle pretends to be one of them, and they always vote for him as consul, or tribune, or censor. It doesn’t matter which. So long as the show continues and he’s still writing the script.” He began chatting merrily about what we would see in Rome, from the Temple of Venus Genetrix to Julius Caesar’s Forum, and for seven days, while the carriages rattled over the roads, he entertained us with stories. At night, when we stopped to sleep in the sprawling villas belonging to Octavian’s friends, I dreamt of Rome. I imagined how much larger it would be than Alexandria, and when the cry came up that we were in sight of the city walls, I threw back the curtains and held my breath. Alexander pressed his face next to mine in the window, then we both drew back.

“This is Rome?” Alexander asked uncertainly.

“The greatest city on earth!” Marcellus said proudly.

For as far as either of us could see, faded brick houses crowded together like cattle in their market-day pens. Posts, which Marcellus called “milestones,” indicated at every mile that Rome was just ahead, but there was no Museion rearing its marble head in the distance, no towering theater crowning any of the hills. A few marble tombs had been constructed on either side of the Appian Way, which seemed to be a favorite burial place for the Romans, but most of the markers were made from roughly hewn stone.

Marcellus saw my disappointment and explained, “Romans have
been fighting one another for centuries. It wasn’t until Caesar that there were finally enough slaves and gold to rebuild. But there’s the tomb of Caecilia Metella.”

The tall, round building was perched on a hill, and though beautiful crenellations decorated its top, it, too, had been made of plain stone. There was a sharp twisting in my stomach, and I could see from Alexander’s face that he felt the same. This was the city whose army had conquered Alexandria. This was where Octavian had studied his Latin, and failed to learn Greek, but had amassed enough power to defeat my father and wipe the Ptolemies from Egypt.

“Someday,” Marcellus said, “everything you see will be marble. And those are Agrippa’s aqueducts.”

For the first time, Alexander and I sat forward, impressed. Arching across the horizon, so tall that the gods alone might have reached them, the aqueducts were the largest structures we had seen so far.

“What do they do?” Alexander asked.

“They carry water to the city. Agrippa has also built baths. There are more than two hundred of them now. My uncle thinks the only way he’ll remain in power is to give the people a better Rome.”

So while my father had been adorning himself with gold in Alexandria, drinking the best wines from my mother’s silver
rhyta
, Octavian had been working to improve his city. Was this why my father’s own people had turned against him? I could hear my father’s raucous laughter in my mind. His men in Egypt had loved him, adored him, even. There had been nothing he wouldn’t do for a soldier who’d fallen on desperate times. But the Romans he’d left behind hadn’t known this. They hadn’t known the man who could ride all day and still stay up until the early hours of the morning with me and Alexander on his lap, drinking and telling stories about his battles against the Parthians.

Our procession of carriages came to a sudden stop, and Alexander and I both looked to Marcellus. “Are we there?” I asked nervously.

Marcellus frowned. “We haven’t even passed the Servian Wall.”

“And then we’ll enter Rome?” my brother asked.

Marcellus nodded, then leaned out of the carriage. There was a commotion happening in front of us. I could hear the raised voices of Agrippa and Octavian.

“What’s happening?” Marcellus shouted. When no one answered, he opened the carriage door and I caught a glimpse of soldiers. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, shutting the door behind him.

“What do you think it is?” I asked Alexander.

“A broken carriage wheel. Or probably a dead horse.”

“But then why the soldiers?”

Marcellus returned and his look was grave. “You might as well get out and take in some fresh air. We won’t be going anywhere for a while.” He helped Alexander and me from the carriage, then explained, “Some sort of rebellion is going on inside the walls.”

“And now we can’t enter?” my brother exclaimed.

“Well, we
could.”
Marcellus ran a hand through his hair. “But it would be much more prudent not to. It’s a slave rebellion a few thousand strong.”

As word began to spread among the carriages that there would be no progress for several hours, doors swung open and tired-looking men stumbled out onto the cobblestones. We approached a group of soldiers who were explaining to Octavian how it had happened. Agrippa and Juba stood on either side of Octavian, listening intently as the prefect described the scene just inside the walls.

“Many of them are gladiators who escaped from the training arena—the Ludus Magnus. It began this morning, and since then, more slaves have joined the rebellion.”

“And who is leading them?” Octavian demanded.

“No one. They’ve been stirred up by”—the prefect hesitated—“by years of listening to the Red Eagle’s messages, and now…. Now they’ve taken to the streets,” he finished quickly. “It’s nothing to worry about, Caesar. The rebellion will be put down before sunset.”

The prefect remained at attention as Octavian turned to face Marcellus. “Was there any trouble when you left Rome sixteen days ago?”

“None,” Marcellus swore. “The streets were peaceful.”

“I doubt there would be rebellion if not for this Red Eagle,” Agrippa said. “When we find him—”

“We will crucify him,” Octavian finished. “I don’t care that he isn’t leading these men. His messages will breed the next Spartacus. And remember,” he said darkly, “a third of Rome’s population is enslaved.”

Alexander whispered to Marcellus, “Who’s Spartacus?”

“Another slave,” he answered quietly. “Almost fifty years ago, he led more than fifty thousand of them in a revolt against Rome. When they were crushed, six thousand were crucified. Crassus refused to have their bodies taken down, so for years their crosses lined this road.”

Octavian looked out from our perch on this same road to the Servian Wall. Along the road, a soldier was fast approaching. His horse’s hooves kicked up clouds of dust, and when the horse stopped before Octavian, the soldier slid off and saluted.

I was surprised to see Octavian smile. “Fidelius,” he said swiftly, “tell me the news.”

Fidelius was young, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, and he began eagerly, “A thousand slaves have already been killed. The ones who remain are trying to find more men to join them, but they haven’t had much success.”

“Yet,” Octavian warned.

But Fidelius shook his head. “They are penned in by the walls, Caesar. The gates have held strong and your men are slaughtering them by the hundreds.”

“Good. And the legions understand they are to take no one alive?”

“Of course.”

There was a moment’s hesitation before Octavian asked, “And your mother, Rufilla?”

Fidelius grinned. “Well. She sends you her love. And this.” He pulled a lightly wrapped package from the leather bag on his horse. It looked thin enough to be a portrait, and when he opened the linen wrapping, I saw that it was.

The color in Octavian’s cheeks rose slightly. “Very nice,” he said softly, studying the woman’s face inside the faience frame. She was pretty, with long black hair and a straight Roman nose. Octavian passed the image to Juba. “Put it away.”

Fidelius frowned. “My mother has missed you a great deal these months.”

“Has she?” Octavian raised his brows. “Well, send her my regards and let her know that I will be very busy in the coming days.”

“But you will see her, Caesar?”

“If I have the time,” Octavian snapped. “There is the matter of a rebellion and a Senate to placate first!”

Fidelius stepped back. “Yes … yes, I understand. The Senate has been tense while you’ve been gone.”

Octavian’s gaze intensified. “Really?” he said with rising interest. “And why is that?”

Fidelius hesitated, and I wondered if he had said more than he should have. “Well, the matter of the war. Not knowing who would win. You or Antony.”

“And?”

Fidelius glanced uneasily at Agrippa. “And the succession. No one knew what would happen if both you and Antony were killed. A few names were mentioned as possible successors.”

Octavian smiled disarmingly. “Such as?”

“Just … just a few men from patrician families. No one with any real power.” Fidelius laughed nervously.

“Well, if the Senate thought enough of them to mention them, perhaps those men can be useful to me somehow.”

Fidelius was surprised. “Really?”

“Why not? Which men did they think might be good replacements?”

“Oh, all sorts of people were mentioned. Even my name was brought up.”

The smile vanished from Octavian’s face.

“Of course, he’s too young,” Marcellus said swiftly. “And he could never lead an army. Who would follow him?”

Fidelius looked at Marcellus and realized what was happening. “That’s—that’s right. They only mentioned my name because of who my father was and how much wealth he left me. Marcellus can tell you. I—I would never want to be Caesar.”

“Of course. Come.” Octavian put his arm around Fidelius’s shoulders and passed a look to Agrippa. “Let’s take a walk. There are some things I’d like to speak about in private.”

Fidelius looked back at Marcellus, who tried to intervene, asking, “But can’t he stay here and play dice?”

Octavian’s glance rooted Marcellus in his place. “No.”

Agrippa joined Octavian and Fidelius, and the three wandered off back the way we had come.

My brother and I looked to Marcellus. “What will happen to him?” Alexander whispered.

Marcellus looked away, and I thought there might be tears in his eyes. “His mother will be told that her son died fighting the rebels.”

“They’re going to kill him?” I cried. “For what?”

Marcellus put a finger to his lips. “If the Senate thought Fidelius would make a good Caesar two months ago, then what stops them from thinking the same thing three years from now?”

“But he doesn’t want to be Caesar!” I protested.

There was a sharp cry at the rear of the wagons, then silence. Marcellus closed his eyes. “He was my closest friend as a child,” he whispered. “I looked up to him like a brother.”

“And your uncle doesn’t care about that?” I exclaimed.

“No. He cares more about the stability of Rome than about anyone’s life.” He opened his eyes and looked at both of us. “Be careful with him.”

The revolt was crushed before the sun had risen to its highest point in the sky. We were sitting by the side of the road rolling dice when Agrippa brought the news. “It’s time to leave,” he said shortly. “The rebellion is finished.”

“And all of them killed?”

Agrippa nodded in answer to Marcellus’s question. “Every last slave.”

“And Fidelius?”

Agrippa hesitated. “Unfortunately, his life was lost.”

We stepped into our carriage, and as it began to roll, Alexander tried to distract Marcellus from his sadness. “How old is the Servian Wall?”

Marcellus shrugged as we passed through the gates. There was no sign of any rebellion, and if the bodies of wounded slaves had
littered the streets, they had since been taken away for Octavian’s arrival. “Extremely old,” he said.

“And the Seven Hills? What are their names?”

Marcellus pointed to the hill directly in front of us. “That’s the Quirinal.” He sighed. “Nothing special there. The one next to it’s the Viminal. It’s the smallest hill. But the Esquiline”—he indicated a hill to the right—“is where wealthy visitors lodge. The problem is getting to the inns at the top.”

“Why? Is the road steep?” I asked.

Marcellus smiled good-naturedly at my question. “No. It’s just filled with escaped slaves, and thieves. Men you don’t want to know,” he assured me. Then he pointed out the Caelian, capped with handsome villas. “To the right of that is the Aventine. Nothing there but pleb houses and merchants.”

“Pleb houses?” Alexander repeated.

“You know, houses for the plebeians. Men who aren’t
equites
and don’t own much land.”

“So Caesar is an equestrian?” I asked.

“Oh no.” Marcellus waved his hand. “Our family’s much higher than that. We’re patricians. We live on the Palatine, where Octavian is building the largest temple to Apollo.” He indicated a flat-topped hill where buildings of polished marble and porphyry gleamed. It wasn’t Alexandria, but there was some beauty in the way the buildings climbed the hillside and shone white against the pale blue sky.

The last of the Seven Hills was the Capitoline. “My father used to take me up there to see the Tarpeian Rock,” Marcellus recalled with a shiver. “That’s where criminals are thrown from if they’re not used in the Amphitheater.”

“And is your father still living?” I asked quietly.

“No. He died ten years ago. A few months later, Octavian arranged for my mother to marry Antony.” Even though our mother
had already given birth to me and Alexander. I felt my cheeks warm, knowing that only five years after her marriage, Octavia had been abandoned. I wondered who had been a father to Marcellus.