show, she asked Claudia whether there was to be a feast.
“No. Your father needs his rest. Perhaps in a few days, when the Red Eagle is dead, there will be a celebration.”
Julia looked at me. “Will you dine with us?”
“Not tonight. I’m not feeling well,” I lied again.
I hurried back to my chamber, hoping that Gallia would be waiting for me, but the room was empty. Then I spotted something dark peeking from beneath my pillow. It was a small black box. I picked it up and read the note that was attached. “In case tomorrow never comes,” it said. I opened the hidden box and took out a necklace of pink sea pearls—my mother’s last gift to me. The one I had given to Juba to purchase Gallia’s freedom. Tears blurred my vision as I put on the necklace. He must have left it in the morning, not knowing whether he would survive the day. And now, his fate was up to the gods.
I paced my room, desperate for any news, and when Octavia returned, I asked if she’d seen Gallia.
“She’s gone home,” she said, and I noticed the half-moons beneath her eyes. She looked drained, as if she’d stayed up for nights on end without sleep. “A fever is spreading through Rome,” she added, “and Gallia tells me that both Magister Verrius and Juba are ill. The physicians say my brother may be suffering from the same sickness. But you are safe.” She reached out and caressed my cheek. A tear wet her finger, and I noticed that she was crying as well. “Shall we pray?”
I followed her into the lararium, where she lit a cone of incense and we knelt before the gods. She whispered her prayers to Fortuna, and I made my silent ones to Isis. I promised all sorts of things to the goddess, swearing to marry whomever Augustus chose, even if he was vile, so long as she would spare Juba’s life. And I vowed to endure my suffering in silence. I would not complain. I would not be embittered. If she would grant Juba’s health, I would never weep in self-pity again.
But the night passed without word, and the next morning, Gallia was nowhere to be found. I paced the library until Vitruvius put down his stylus and insisted I go outside for fresh air. “If you are worried on behalf of Magister Verrius, you needn’t be. I saw him this morning and he looked well.”
“You did?” I cried. “Where?”
Vitruvius looked at me strangely. “On the Palatine. Coming from Juba’s villa.”
“And what did he say?”
“That Juba is ill.”
“And was Gallia with him?”
Vitruvius shook his head. “No. Not that I saw.”
I hurried onto the portico, hoping to catch a glimpse of Magister Verrius, but the only person hurrying toward Octavia’s villa was Agrippa. When he saw me, he smiled.
“Excellent news,” he said triumphantly.
“Has the Red Eagle been caught?”
“Even better. He’s dead.”
I felt my heart stop in my chest, but Agrippa went on.
“Two men caught him last night attempting to post an actum on the Temple of Apollo. He was already hurt, but they ran him through with a gladius as he fled.”
Suddenly the world was spinning. It was Alexander’s death all over again. “And is … is there a body?”
“No. But judging from the amount of blood he left behind, there’s no chance that he survived.”
He went inside to share his triumph with Octavia, and I held on to a column to keep myself from falling. I had to find Gallia. Gallia or Magister Verrius would know what had happened. I raced to the bottom of the Palatine without bothering to demand a guard. I banged on Magister Verrius’s door at the end of the street. When no one answered, I peered through the windows, and a child who was passing by stopped to stare at me.
“There’s no one there,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“I live next door. They haven’t been back all night.”
“What about this morning?”
The boy shook his head.
“Not even Magister Verrius?”
“No.”
I took the shortcut back up the hill. I didn’t dare to approach Juba’s villa, but I went to the Temple of Apollo to see for myself. A group of Praetorians were gathered at the entrance, and I recognized two of the guards as the same men who’d accompanied me to Alexander’s mausoleum. They were talking quietly between themselves, admiring the stain across the marble steps. It was just as Agrippa had described it. No one could lose so much blood