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

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 hadlittered 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