Free Cleopatra’s Daughter: A Novel by Michelle Moran Page A

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