Cleopatra's Moon (9 page)

I must have put my hand on the floor at some point, for I saw my smeared, bloody handprint beside Tata’s head.

The wailing around the palace grew louder. Alexandros ran in and skidded to a stop, horror-struck. Mother’s secretary, Diomedes, followed. “The queen has sent for Antonius. What is happening?”

My father gasped. “What? Cleopatra … lives?”

I gasped too, filled with hope. I knew it! It all had been a mistake. Mother would not leave us! And Olympus would fix Father!

Diomedes moved his eyes to the floor and stepped back at the sight of Tata. “Y-yes! She awaits … what has happened?”

A servant whispered in his ear. Diomedes placed his hands on his head. “Gods! What will I tell the queen?”

I looked at Father. His face was pale, paler than I had ever seen it.

“My queen lives?” he repeated in almost a whisper.

“Yes, sire! She asks for you….”

At that, he closed his eyes and emitted a low, groanlike chuckle. A more miserable sound I had never heard, before or since.

“The gods … so cruel,” he muttered. Then more loudly, “Take me … see her … before I die.”

At that, Alexandros fell on his knees beside me. “No, Tata, you will not die! The physician will fix everything!”

“Too late.” Father’s eyes fluttered for a moment, but then he opened them, trying to focus. “Remember … you are Roman …” He gasped, searching for air.

“Stop, Tata, please,” Alexandros said.

“… Roman citizen … “ He looked at Alexandros. “Tell Octavianus … he must spare you … to save himself. Understand?”

Alexandros nodded as tears coursed down his cheeks.

Tata turned to me, his body a shiver of tiny convulsions. “Philadelphos … watch over …”

Ptolly! I had forgotten about him. Where was he? I did not want him to see Tata like this.

Litter bearers rushed into the room. Alexandros and I fell back into the warm pool of Father’s blood as they pushed us aside to get to him. They lifted up my crimson-soaked father and swept him away in a clatter of stomping feet and urgent shouts. I ran after them. One of Tata’s big strong hands hung off the side of the litter, the wrist and fingers loose as if he slept.

Someone grabbed me by the waist and I lost my breath as I flew backward against the arms. “No, Princess,” a guard whispered. “You cannot follow.”

I fought and kicked and screamed, but the man who held me would not release me. I watched, sobbing, until my dying father disappeared into the blinding glare of an Alexandrian summer day.

A kitchen servant ran into the playroom to talk to Zosima. “They’ve got the palace surrounded,” she whispered, though I could hear her as plainly as if she’d yelled.

“Where is the queen?” Zosima asked.

“In the mausoleum. They’ve trapped her with her husband’s body. The queen negotiates to save the children. She threatens to burn all the wealth in there with her unless the conqueror guarantees to not kill them.”

My stomach tightened. Octavianus threatened to kill us? I looked at Ptolly and breathed out in relief when it appeared he had not heard.
This is all a bad dream
, I told myself.
I will waken and Tata will come roaring in, calling for wine and demanding a game of
Jactus
for high stakes
. I looked down to see if I had my coin purse nearby and noticed dried blood underneath my fingernails.

Hours passed. The sound of Roman soldiers — their thick, guttural accents, their loud laughter — filled the palace. We stayed in our quarters, too afraid even to roam the halls. A servant said that the Romans had taken to spearing the tame animals on the grounds for fun, and I prayed Amisi stayed out of their way. Once, I heard a group of men laughing and grunting, along with the cries and pleas of a young woman begging for mercy. Zosima and Nafre exchanged nervous glances, and I wondered if they knew the young woman under attack.

Ptolly cried himself to sleep in Nafre’s arms that night. She had finally delivered the news about Tata.

The palace seemed darker than usual. Torches that had usually lit the paths between the halls and gardens remained unlit. Even the walkways to the Library and the scholars’ apartments looked sinister and dangerous. Only Pharos, the Lighthouse, burned as bright as ever.

Standing on our terrace, I stared at the red flames illuminating the night. I felt betrayed even by the Lighthouse. How was it possible for it to keep shining as if nothing had happened? Did the lighthouse keeper not know that my tata was dead? Shouldn’t he have withheld the fire in his honor? In defiance of Rome? Yet there it was, glowing as brightly as ever over the gray-black sea, directing Isis knew how many more Roman soldiers to our shore.
Traitor
!

I struggled to manage my rage and grief. Grief over losing Tata and rage against the Romans, who had ambushed Mother and dragged her back to her chambers in the palace. When I went to visit her, the soldier guarding her door announced, “No one sees the queen under Caesar’s orders.”

“Even her own children?” I asked, incredulous.

“
Especially
her own children.” The man smirked.

The unfairness — the cruelty — of keeping us away from our mother on the day of our father’s death was beyond understanding.

“Why? Why are they doing this?” I wailed to Katep later.

“They are using your lives to bargain with the queen.”

“What?”

“As long as that Roman keeps you away from her, he raises her fear that he has harmed you — or will harm you — in some way. He has made it a punishment of death for anyone who allows you to visit her — or for anyone who allows the queen to visit you.”

“But that is so unfair!”

“Look,” Katep said. “The Roman knows she tried to follow your father into the Land of
Inmenet
. She turned a dagger on herself when his men burst in, but a guard wrestled it out of her hand. Octavianus holds your lives over her head so she will not try again.”

I must have made a sound because Katep turned to look at me. “I am sorry, Little Moon. I should not have spoken so bluntly.”

But it was not the threat against our lives that had shocked me. It was the shock of hearing that Mother had tried to … had attempted …

She would not! How could she have planned to leave us to fend for ourselves? Surely Katep got the story wrong. Mother had intended to use her dagger to
kill
the Roman guard. Yes! That was the only explanation that made sense. Mother would never abandon us like that. She would not!

Tata’s sideways grins and growling bear hugs haunted my dreams. I woke searching for
Jactus
dice to play with him or hearing his laughter as he chased us. But Octavianus made my grief even worse by continuing to forbid us from seeing Mother. I worried constantly: Had he imprisoned her? Hurt her? Was she well?

In my despair, I also grew angry
at
Mother. Why wasn’t she defying him? She was still queen, was she not?

“She does this for you,” Katep continually reminded me. “To keep him from hurting you and your brothers.” But I had never before seen Mother in a position of weakness. It frightened me as much as it angered me.

During the long days of waiting, we stayed with our nurses in the children’s wing, still too cautious to venture outside. “Roman soldiers are uneducated animals!” Zosima had proclaimed. “We must avoid them completely.”

I believed her. I heard the weeping of women they attacked and the agonized cries of loyal servants they tortured. Alexandros cleaved even closer to Iotape during this period, for she and her nurse had moved into our rooms as well. So I turned to Ptolly and he to me. I took to playing long games of make-believe with him to keep him occupied.

Even so, his tantrums grew legendary. He screamed when we told him he could not visit the lions at the Menagerie, or swim in our private bay, or venture out to the Lighthouse. He threw himself on the floor when he couldn’t get fresh pomegranate juice or the almond sweet cakes he loved so much. The Romans made us eat what the soldiers ate — mostly bread and beans and sour wine, brought up to us by terrified kitchen
servants who, despite threats to their very lives, occasionally snuck in fresh figs or grapes and tiny honey cakes.

We became so desperate for fresh air that we took to sleeping outside on our terrace. The sounds and smells of the sea calmed us all. But it was such a lonely time, especially when I saw how often my twin and Iotape fell asleep clasping hands. I wanted somebody to hold my hand. I wanted my tata. I wanted Caesarion, who, I prayed, was still safely on his way to India. I wanted my mother.

Finally, we got word Octavianus would allow us to see Mother. He had called for a meeting in her chambers. Mother commanded our nurses to bring us early.

Nothing prepared me for her appearance. I knew she had been ill with grief after Tata’s death, but I still took a step back at the wraith that met us in her chamber. Her normally glowing skin looked drained of color, as if someone had thrown a sheath of thick linen over the sun. Still, she looked as elegant as she always had in a Tyrrhenian purple gown, the color of royalty. Her favorite golden snake bracelet wound up her arm, its emerald eyes flashing. Golden bands secured her thick dark hair, wound up in the simple Greek way she preferred, and her ladies had painted her eyes with kohl and malachite in a way that usually highlighted their gold-green sparkle. But with a growing heaviness, I saw what had changed. The furious, crackling, intelligent light that shone from Mother’s eyes was gone. She looked defeated, empty.

She did not rise from her couch to greet us, but had us come to her one by one. Ptolly went first. She hugged him, and I could see her eyes fill as she looked him over, drinking in the almost uncanny way Ptolly resembled our father — the curly hair, the twinkling eyes, the bull-like body, the way he stood, legs apart, as if ready to jump into action. My stomach contracted as the truth hit me once more — I would never see my beloved tata again.

Ptolly began badgering Mother with questions, which I could see distressed her:
Where was Tata? Why were we not allowed to visit her? Why couldn’t we roam the palace anymore
? Ptolly, of course, knew that Father had died, but the sight of Mother seemed to confuse him, and he grew angry and agitated as if Mother were purposely frustrating him. Nafre quickly came to his side and whispered in his ear. She picked him up — even though my brother seemed too big for her to lift — and continued whispering as she took him to the back of the room to show him something, anything, that would distract him from his brewing emotional storm.

Alexandros went up next. Mother hugged him and kissed his forehead. I could not hear what she murmured to him — or what he murmured back — but I could see from the color that rose up my twin’s neck that he struggled to maintain his composure.

When it was my turn, I shivered, not wanting to be so close to the dead-seeming eyes, yet longing to lose myself in Mother’s embrace. My throat constricted as I stood before her. She opened her arms for a hug. I closed my eyes as I fell into her warmth. Her special scent filled my nose, a fragrance that always soothed, like the Goddess’s hand on my brow. As she had with Alexandros, Mother kissed me on the forehead, holding my cheeks between her soft hands.

“You are well?” she murmured when I stepped back. “They have not hurt you?”

I shook my head.

“I have been told you were in the room when your father …”

My head shot up and I looked at her. “I am sorry … I should have …,” I whispered, feeling the weight of everything that had happened. The shame, the grief. I should have stopped him. If only I had moved earlier … I could have stopped him!

“Daughter, do not blame yourself. The gods set our fates long ago. I am glad that you were able to say goodbye. It was … These things are important….”

My eyes flicked toward Ptolly. Perhaps that was why he sometimes acted as if he had forgotten Tata was dead?

“I am told Octavianus will take you to Rome but that you will be safe,” Mother said in a quiet voice, as if she did not want to be overheard.

“Rome! I do not want to go to Rome!” I whispered, following her lead. Despite all the evidence, I had still hoped that Mother would somehow miraculously save us and Egypt.

Mother held my eyes and, for a moment, I felt the power and weight of her Horus-like stare. It lightened my heart even as it scared me. “Listen carefully,” she whispered. “Many of my agents are at work here and in Rome; they will look out for your safety. You will know them as followers of Isis. Once we gain contact with Caesarion in India, we will find a way to smuggle you and your brothers to him. Do you understand? We must appear to comply, and when the time is right, unite you.”

I nodded. Mother had a plan! Of course she did. Her network of agents would not let us down. I smiled at her, relief flooding every
atomos
of my being. Mother would go with us to India. We would all be together again! It would turn out all right in the end.

Mother smiled back, and I saw the flicker of fire catch in her eyes. Nothing she could have said or done could have given me more courage than that momentary flash.

In that instant, a Roman burst in. “Who dared tell you the children could come before Caesar called for them?” he roared.

The man — strong, stocky, and with a heavy brow — scowled furiously. He wore an ornate breastplate, and his red cape was of very rich material. Whoever he was, he was very powerful. Was this my father’s murderer — Octavianus?

Mother signaled that I should return to stand with my brothers, then she looked at the man. “Why, Marcus Agrippa, surely you would not be so cruel as to keep a mother from having a few private moments with her children — children I have been forbidden to see for weeks, I might add?”

Not Octavianus, but Agrippa, the general who had trapped Father. I thrilled at Mother’s sarcastic tone. She wasn’t scared of him! She might appear diminished physically, but her spirit had not been crushed.

A short young Roman wearing an even more ornate breastplate and finer cape sauntered in behind Agrippa. “What has caught your ire now, Marcus?” he asked. Three young officers followed him in and took a position behind us against the wall.

“The queen disobeyed our orders and called the children to her before your arrival,” Agrippa spat.

“And the guards did not stop them?” he asked mildly.

“Somehow, she convinced them it was
your
wish,” Agrippa said.

The young man turned to her. “Tsk, tsk, my queen,” he said. Mother bristled at his familiarity. The boy-man continued. “Did we not have an agreement that you would follow my orders precisely … or?” He flicked a look at us.

“Yes, Octavianus, we did —”

He slammed his palm on the table, and I jumped. “You will call me CAESAR!”

Mother stared at him. “We did,
sir
, have an agreement with which I complied. The agreement was that you would meet with all of us this
morning. There was no specified instruction that the children could not visit with me
first
.”

While Octavianus focused on Mother, I took the opportunity to study him.
This
was the man responsible for the death of my father and the destruction of my beloved Alexandria?
This
was the man who had the world on its knees before him? A less imposing person I could not have imagined. He was short — not much taller than Mother — and slight. The muscled breastplate only seemed to accentuate his small frame. He was sunburned, as if the Egyptian sun had tried but been unable to darken his skin in any way. His brown hair, burned at the tips by sun and wind into yellow strands, rested over a triangle-shaped face — wide at the forehead, coming to a delicate point at his chin. There was nothing frightening about this little man.

Until he turned toward me. And then it was as if I stared into the cold, dead eyes of crocodile-headed Amut the Destroyer.

“Well, well, well,” he said, and smiled. “The last of the line of the Great House of Ptolemy.”

His back was to Mother, and I could see her stiffen as he looked us over. Octavianus strolled back and forth, his hands behind his back. He stopped at Ptolly, seeming struck by his resemblance to Tata.

“Hmmph,” he muttered. “No doubt who your father was.”

“Who are you?” Ptolly asked, holding Nafre’s hand.

“I am Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus,” he said.

Ptolly furrowed his brow. “But that is Caesarion’s tata’s name. He is the only son of Julius Caesar! And you are not Julius Caesar. I have seen the statues Mother has of him. You do not look anything like him!”

A still, deadly quiet settled in the room as Octavianus watched Ptolly. “I am the true and only son of the Great and Divine Julius Caesar, young man.”

Ptolly looked confused. I saw Mother signal Nafre to keep him quiet.

“Any pretenders to that claim are liars and sons of whores,” Octavianus continued, with as much emotion as one might say the sun was shining that day.

My heart began to race. My little brother’s face was so open and transparent, I could tell the next question out of his mouth was going to be “What’s a whore?”

“Ptolly!” I called. He looked at me and I shook my head, praying he would understand my meaning:
Do not say another word
.

“Ah, the Ptolemy tradition continues,” Octavianus said. “The cunning female silencing the trusting male.” He knelt down at eye level with Ptolly. “Do you miss your big brother Caesarion?”

Mother shifted and I glanced her way. Her expression of dawning horror made me catch my breath. What was happening? What did she see that I did not?

“I miss my tata too!” Ptolly said.

Octavianus stiffened, then rolled his neck ever so slightly. “Ah, yes. My poor, doomed brother-in-law. How I wish it had not ended this way!”

I wanted to scream,
LIAR
! How dare Octavianus try to empathize with Ptolly? Alexandros must have been feeling the same agitation, for he said, through gritted teeth, “And did you know, little brother, that it was
this
man in front of you who declared war on Tata and caused his death?”

Ptolly looked confused. Octavianus swiveled to Alexandros, his face dark and angry. “It appears Egyptian half-breeds are not taught to stay quiet when adults are speaking. That will change when you are in Rome.”

“We are going to Rome?” Ptolly asked. “Is that where Tata is?”

Mother kept her face impassive, but I could see the panic in her eyes. Octavianus had seized on the weakest one of us and was playing him like a lyre. Mother stood. “Nafre, I believe Ptolly has had enough for today. Please return him to his quarters.”

Octavianus stood up slowly and scowled at Mother. “I am the only person in this room qualified to give orders,” he said in a quiet voice.

Nafre paused after turning to lead Ptolly out.

“And I say,” Octavianus continued, “that the child stays.”

Ptolly’s nurse looked at Mother, who mouthed, “Go.” Nafre started walking again.

“Stop!” Octavianus yelled, and she and Ptolly both jumped. He marched over to her and grabbed her wrist so that she released Ptolly’s hand. “Soldier!”

One of the guards stepped into the room. “Yes, sir!”

“Take this servant and have her punished for disobeying Caesar’s orders.”

The man grabbed Nafre by the upper arm. “The punishment, sir?” Octavianus’s gaze traveled up and down her body and he smirked. “Anything the men want.”

“No!” Nafre cried, terror in her eyes.

“This is an outrage!” Mother said. “You cannot abuse her in this way! This is the child’s
nurse!”

“Let her go! Let her go!” Ptolly shouted. He began kicking and punching at the soldier, who put an arm out to swat him away.

“Halt!” yelled Mother. She seemed to grow before our eyes, as if the lion-headed goddess, Sekhmet, had entered her body and growled a bone-rattling warning. As in the old days, everyone instantly quieted and turned to her, including out-of-control Ptolly and Octavianus.

“Surely,” she said in a cool, dangerous voice, “the great Conqueror of Egypt should not be known as a cruel man. What would that do to his well-deserved reputation — and growing legacy — of clemency?”

I knew from Mother’s stories that Caesarion’s tata — Octavianus’s adopted father, Julius Caesar — was famous for his leniency and mercy to those he had defeated in war. Mother must have guessed that Octavianus desperately wanted to appear as powerful and benevolent as the great Caesar.

Octavianus blinked. “Yes. Quite. Soldier, release her.”

I breathed. She had guessed right. The soldier obeyed, saluted, and left when Octavianus gestured at him with a flick of the wrist. “However,” he said, turning toward Mother, “let us use this unfortunate incident to be clear as to who gives the orders around here.”

Mother had no choice but to acquiesce. She nodded, and I could see how much it had cost her.

Ptolly had buried his face in Nafre’s waist, and her hand trembled as she stroked his curls. I looked at Mother, wanting to catch her eye, but she watched Octavianus as if he were a dangerous snake that could strike unexpectedly if she blinked.

Octavianus approached Ptolly again, going down on one knee in front of him. In a soft voice, he said, “Not to worry, little man. Your nurse is safe. Now … look at me.”

Ptolly refused, shaking his head and pressing his face harder into Nafre’s shift.

“Did you know I grew up in Rome with your tata?”

Ptolly sniffed and turned his face slightly toward Octavianus, staring at him with one red eye.

“Yes,” Octavianus continued, showing his teeth in a crocodile smile. “He once taught me how to wrestle. Did he ever wrestle with you?”

Ptolly nodded his head, wiping his nose on Nafre’s skirt. My stomach dropped. Why was Octavianus doing this? What did he want? I saw Mother exchange a desperate look with Charmion. “I bet he taught your brothers to wrestle too, didn’t he?” Again, Ptolly nodded.

“All of your brothers? Including Caesarion?”

Ptolly nodded yet again and moved his face so that he could see Octavianus with both eyes.

“Is Caesarion a good wrestler?” Octavianus asked in an innocent tone.

“Yes,” Ptolly said. “Tata said he was quick and smart like his own tata.”

“Did Caesarion say goodbye to you when he went away?” Ptolly smiled. “He gave me his favorite toy chariot to keep until I see him again.”

“Where is he? Did he tell you where he was going?”

Mother made a strangled sound in her throat. My heart started thudding in my ears. I understood what he was doing now: He was trying to get Ptolly to tell him where Caesarion had gone so he could hunt him down and murder him. And, for an extra dose of cruelty, he was doing it in front of Mother. In front of us.

Ptolly, too young to pick up the distress of those around him, nodded. “Across the desert,” he said. “On a camel.”

“Ptolly, stop!” I said. “Do not say any more.”

Octavianus turned his head slowly in my direction. “Child, you seem to not be aware of what your mother has already gleaned. I will get this information from your brother one way or another. Perhaps you prefer I remove Ptolemy Philadelphos from his family’s protection and question him in private?” He smiled at Ptolly. “Such a sweet little boy. I think I would enjoy that very much.”

Dread filled my belly. I looked at Mother. She looked trapped and desperate.

Octavianus breathed out. “Now, Ptolly. Which desert? Which desert was Caesarion riding a camel over?”

“No!” Mother growled. “I will exchange my life for my son’s! Caesarion will be loyal to you. He will be Rome’s Friend and Ally.”

Octavianus stood and crossed his arms, a cold grin on his face. “We have been through this before, my queen. Very noble of you, but I need you for my Triumph. And I cannot let any blood-son of my adopted father live to contest my legacy, can I? Two Caesars are simply one too many.”

I thought Mother might faint. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a strangled sound emerged. I had never before seen her without power, without command. But the woman in front of me was helpless to stop the murder of her own beloved firstborn. The horror of the realization took my breath away.

I looked for something — someone — to stop Octavianus. To make this horrible nightmare go away. Agrippa? The young officers behind us? I caught the eye of one of them. He looked about Caesarion’s age,
also wearing the Roman uniform of a finely tooled leather cuirass and a bloodred cape, though with the cinnamon-brown skin of a North African. Of all of the Romans in the room, he was the only one who seemed disturbed by what Octavianus was doing. I begged him with my eyes to stop Octavianus. But the young African flushed and looked at his feet. Nobody could or would help us.

Octavianus squatted once more, facing Ptolly eye to eye. “Now. Where did Caesarion
go?”

Do not answer him, Ptolly. Please
!

Ptolly jutted his jaw. “I told you already! To the desert!”

Octavianus gritted his teeth. “
Which
desert?”

Tell him you don’t know. Tell him you don’t know
. But I could feel Ptolly’s emotional storm gathering like thick black clouds, crackling with vicious bolts of lightning. And I knew it was too late.

“The desert on the other side!” he roared. “The one that goes to
India!”