“WELL, good riddance to Agrippa,” Julia said as we made our way into the city, rows of Nubian slaves carrying our covered litter. The four of us were often together—Julia, Marcellus, Philadelphus, and me. We traveled everywhere with a large contingent of my courtiers and Julia’s new friends. Some of them, like the poet Ovid, were upand-coming artists, eager for patronage. Others were young patricians who made a competition of outspending one another with entertainments. In their company, Julia had blossomed from a neglected little girl into a vibrant center of attention. She had the glow of a young woman in love and whenever circumstances permitted, she and Iullus met secretly for their trysts. Marcellus cheerfully made excuses for them. In truth, Julia’s false marriage seemed a good deal happier than my own, so I set aside my misgivings and enjoyed spending time with friends my own age and the children of my youth.
In the litter, Julia leaned back against her husband and said, “I wonder why Agrippa really left.” I knew
exactly
why Agrippa had fled the city, but some secrets were too dangerous to share, even with those I loved. Julia continued, “Marcellus, your sister says that her husband, our good admiral, was in a fit of pique. That he had some falling out with my father.”
Marcellus yawned. His face was shadowed and he looked tired. I guessed he’d spent one too many late nights carousing with Virgil, or perhaps he’d been working too hard, trying to impress Augustus. “Who knows what goes on in Agrippa’s iron heart. My sister certainly doesn’t. As for me, I’ve no time to pay attention to Agrippa now that the emperor has appointed me to the College of Pontiffs; I’m too busy obeying his commands to chase down and destroy scraps of paper with false prophecies about saviors and sun gods.”
Philadelphus and I exchanged a secret glance at the knowledge that even now, the emperor still feared Isiac beliefs. Julia pressed her painted red lips together in thought. “I think Agrippa doesn’t approve of my father’s theatrics. Have you heard, Selene? My father has given up his consular powers and says he intends to restore the Republic.”
Everyone had heard, but Philadelphus said, “Don’t believe it.” I lifted my eyes to his in warning. But he was right. Even half dead, Augustus had consolidated his power while silencing his enemies. They all accused him of choosing Marcellus to succeed him, so he gave Agrippa his signet ring. He offered to have his Last Will read in the Senate to prove that he’d not given Marcellus anything that wasn’t his to give. Now he was orchestrating a bit of stagecraft that would humble the finest playwright in Rome: He’d announced that he wished to become a private citizen.
Marcellus smirked, his eyes still drowsy. “Augustus knows how to put on a good show. It wasn’t enough simply to resign the post. Like some musty old forefather, he had to go all the way to the Alban Mount to lay down his office. Do you know he chose Sestius to replace him!”
“You think his resignation is only a performance?” one of Julia’s new admirers asked. “It seemed real enough. Sestius is an avowed Republican. Why would Augustus elevate his worst critic unless he meant to give up power?”
Newcomers were so naive about the emperor. I found myself explaining, “He’s only given up the consulship. In exchange, he accepted some form of tribunician powers for life.” What I didn’t say is that he’d made a
pretense
of giving power back to the people, all while gathering new and unorthodox powers. And I couldn’t find it within myself to be sorry about it either. It wasn’t for the good of Rome, after all, that I’d sat by his bedside, willing the tyrant back to health.
Julia tapped to make the litter bearers set us down. We wanted to walk the rest of the way to the site of the new theater Marcellus was building, but as soon as we climbed out we were mobbed by hungry citizens, begging for food. With the surge of the crowd, Marcellus stumbled. It seemed at first that he’d merely caught his sandal on a stone, but when Julia tried to steady him Marcellus slipped through her hands, drenched in sweat, his eyes glassy. He managed to find his footing and gave a dazzling smile to our entire retinue as if it were all of no consequence.
Then he collapsed.
THE first day, Marcellus burned with fever, quaked with chills, and ended the night in a sweat-soaked bed. By morning, he rallied and summoned Virgil to read to him. But within two days, the cycle started again, this time with headaches that made him groan. Julia stayed with Marcellus as if she were his true wife, tending to him even when he vomited, proving what I’d always known—that her compassion was greater than her vanity.
How swiftly fate turns. When the emperor lay dying, it’d been Livia who haunted the halls, fearful. Now, as summer faded into autumn, it was Octavia who became a shadow of herself, hovering near her son’s bed as if she could will him back to health. The Antonias beseeched her to sleep, but she sent them away with angry words. I braved her wrath with a platter of fruit and urged her to eat. “Don’t be kind to me right now, Selene,” she said. “It galls me.”
She was thinking that her son was dying and that as Cleopatra’s daughter I ought to take pleasure in it. I didn’t. This fever was no divine retribution. Marcellus had nothing to do with the tragedies of my family. He was a beautiful young man, intelligent and good-humored. He was my friend. He was an innocent, and in some ways, so was Octavia. Sitting beside her, I said, “I understand. Your kindness has always been difficult for me to accept, but somehow we both must bear it.”
“Oh, my girl.” She reached for me, her calloused fingers lacing with mine. Her hands had once seemed stronger than Agrippa’s, but now they shook with human frailty and fear. “My other daughters have never known real suffering. But you know. You can tell me. If I made sacrifices to your goddess, would she save my son? Will you ask her to do so?”
“I will,” I promised, and that night I burned sage and poured a libation to Isis, asking her to spare the emperor’s heir.
Marcellus got no better. Musa feared the air in Rome and suggested that we go to the resort town of Baiae. Thus the imperial family made ready to travel but I was overcome with a feeling of foreboding. I thought to stay in Rome, but Philadelphus said, “You have to come with us. Octavia needs us and I need you!”
So we all went to Baiae. Virgil owned a house near Lake Avernus and opened it for me and the rest of our entourage. The emperor’s poet was himself never overly fond of company, but his fondness for Marcellus was never more evident. He would do anything to restore the young man’s health. At dusk, before our procession could bed down beneath the shadow of Mount Vesuvius where the air smelled of sulfur and the ground itself was warm, Musa insisted that Marcellus must swim in Lake Avernus. The evening air was frigid, and I was tired from the journey. Even Philadelphus complained of aches and pains resulting from our bumpy carriage ride. He was all out of sorts.
But Marcellus was wild with fever and wouldn’t be persuaded to go out into the lake unless we all went. As Bast prowled the shoreline, stalking fallen leaves, Philadelphus shivered beneath his cloak. “Hold my hand, Selene.”
He was nearly a man grown now and usually shrugged away from my affection in embarrassment, but now he clutched my hand like a small child. “It’s peaceful here,” he said, staring at the surface of the water, his eyelids half lowered. But when I looked into the sky and saw its royal purple mantle darken the moon, I feared that the gods were readying a kingly cloak for a dying prince.
“Just a little moonlight swim,” Lady Octavia said to encourage Marcellus. Her voice was strung tight with fear. She’d poured all the hopes of her life into her son and if she lost him, I knew it would break her. Still, Marcellus was young and vigorous. The emperor’s health had never been robust, yet
he
survived this fever. Surely it would pass over Marcellus too.
“Come now,” the emperor said to Marcellus, and began to strip off his clothes. “I’ll go in too.” I turned my head to dislodge the memories that the emperor’s pale torso aroused in me but admired the way he encouraged his nephew by saying, “If I can bear it, you can too. You’re a strong Roman boy. It’s just a bit of cold water.”
While Augustus waded into the lake, Philadelphus let go of my hand and shrugged out of his own clothes. “I’ll go with you, Marcellus,” he said. I took my brother’s cloak, wrapping it over my arm, smiling to find a bag of dates tucked inside it, as Philadelphus braced himself against the cold water, his hand on his amulet as if to give him strength. Then he splashed up to his knees. “It’s not so terrible. We can do this together.”
At this, Marcellus finally consented, though the physician had to help him into the water, and I felt an unnatural shiver down my spine. While everyone else watched Marcellus, my eyes skimmed over the water to where Philadelphus swam. He looked at me, our eyes locked, then he dipped below the surface. He reemerged a moment later, gasping, then disappeared again. Clutching his clothing, I cried out for him. “Philadelphus!” I called his name again, but all I saw was the surface of the lake. Unreadable black ink.
No, no. My goddess couldn’t let my little brother drown! I shouted again, and the emperor hastened to my call. He didn’t wait for the guards but swam to where Philadelphus had been. I dropped the garments in my arms and threw off my own cloak, ready to dive into the water myself, when the emperor fished Philadelphus from the depths. Rushing to shore, Augustus carried my brother in his arms. Philadelphus was wet and unmoving, and I died inside to see his foot trailing limply.
“He’s breathing,” the emperor said, spitting water to the ground, and yet again gratitude made me sink to my knees before him.
I cornered Musa outside the room in which my little brother shivered. “What’s wrong with him? He didn’t drown. Why hasn’t he recovered?”
“I don’t think it was the water, Majesty. It’s an illness. A fever.”
“Or poison.” I said aloud that which everyone else was whispering. The emperor’s illness had pushed Livia to the edge of desperation. She didn’t want to be left at the mercy of those who despised her, so it made sense to strike at Marcellus. But why my poor Philadelphus ? Musa stared up at the Doric columns as if their scrolled caps contained the secret to the mystery, but he made no answer. “Maybe the sweet wormwood will help,” I suggested. “It helped Philadelphus before!”
Musa bit his lip. “Your brother is much sicker this time. I’ve felt his spleen and it’s swollen—”
“Musa, if you ever loved my father, I call upon your loyalty now. You must heal Philadelphus. You must make him better.”
Emotion bobbed at the physician’s throat. “My dearest Majesty, Philadelphus is a stouthearted boy and I have much affection for him. He never complains. He never has a harsh word for anyone. He has your father’s charm and if there were more that I could do, I’d have done it without your needing to ask. Sit with him. Hearing your voice may help him where medicine cannot.”
Later, when Philadelphus and I were alone together in his room, he murmured. “I told you, I stay in Rome.”
“Stop saying that! We’re not even in Rome now. We’re on the Bay of Naples. Can’t you smell the sea?”
“I’m dying, Selene,” Philadelphus rasped. “I’ve seen it in the Rivers of Time . . .”
That stilled my heart. “Whatever you’ve seen can be changed.”
“Do you remember our mother’s funeral? You were dressed as Isis, Helios as Horus, and I was Osiris.”
Osiris, the dead god. I shook my head, vehemently. “You’ll outlive me.”
“I’ve never seen it happen that way, Selene. You’re the last of us.”
This couldn’t be happening. I wouldn’t let it happen. They all said the emperor would die, but I’d willed him back to health and I’d make Philadelphus better too, somehow. “Not the last,” I said, a meaningful look passing between us in which we acknowledged the brother whose name we couldn’t say. “And there’s Isidora.”
He shivered but smiled at the mention of her name. Since the day our mother died, Philadelphus had never been without his shining Collar of Gold amulet. Now he removed it from his neck and held it out for me to take. “Give this to your daughter. You may be tempted to give it to the son you’ll bear, but it’s meant for her . . .”
I stumbled back. “No. You keep it. It’s yours. You’ll need it.”
Despite his entreaties, I left the gold chain coiled around his fist like a viper. I took it only hours later, when seizures wracked his frame, and it dropped from his hand to the floor. He didn’t cry out—not like Marcellus, whose howls echoed through the halls. Philadelphus, my precious little brother, only whispered,
“Isis.”
He died in the depths of the night when the sky was as black as the soil of Egypt. I was with him, clutching his amulet, breathing with him until he breathed no more. I thought I’d cry or sob. Anything to break the unnatural quiet. Instead, I sat stunned, crushed beneath a pain too large to contemplate. How could it be that my Philadelphus would never see another dawn? Somehow I made myself get up. I’d go to Octavia. She’d tell me that Philadelphus was only sleeping. She’d chide me like she did when I was a girl and set the world back to its natural order. But when I stepped into the hallway, I was assaulted by a keening wail.
“Marcellus!” Octavia stumbled out, tearing at her clothes as if some creature were eating her alive. “My boy is dead, my son is dead, my son is dead!”
Twenty
ROME
WINTER 23 B.C.
FRESH timber was cut for the enormous funeral pyre and it seemed as if all the city came out into the damp and somber cold to see Marcellus burned. It was a grand state funeral. Augustus himself gave the eulogy. Virgil, grief-stricken and shattered, read a section of his unfinished
Aeneid
, in which the great Roman hero saw the shade of Marcellus in the underworld, lamenting that he was destined to die young, without fulfilling his promise. At hearing this, Lady Octavia collapsed. She’d borne all the other calamities of her life with grace, but this was too much. What’s more, the public spectacle of her grief shamed her such that she never allowed another poet to speak her son’s name.