Cleopatra's Moon (15 page)

My enemy’s wife dictated in rapid Latin to her lady as they strolled the garden. I usually avoided Livia, but today I needed her approval to leave the compound. Octavia was always gracious if not outright permissive with me — which is why I preferred to ask her — but she was visiting a friend. I had no choice but to approach Livia Drusilla.

Livia stopped talking at the sight of me.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I have read most of the scrolls your lady has offered me. I seek permission to go to the public library for additional reading material.”

Livia gave some silent signal to her secretary, who snapped closed the wooden wax tablets, lowered her head, and stepped back.

“No.”

“But …” I had not expected such a terse answer. I cleared my throat. “May I ask why?”

“You cannot go to Rome’s ‘public library’ because Rome does not
have
one,” Livia answered.

“I do not understand. How is that possible? Even Pergamum has a fine library. Where do your scholars go when they need to do research?”

Livia frowned and narrowed her eyes at me, a look that could melt a Roman broadsword. It only made me want to raise my chin higher. Her stare of dominance was good, but it did not come anywhere near Mother’s Horus stare.

“Scholars go to their
patrons’
libraries,” Livia said slowly.

“But what if the patron does not have what they need? What do they do then?”

“They sail to Alexandria to study in your — excuse me, your
former —
library. But not for much longer. Soon most of the scrolls will come here.”

“What?”

“Yes. We will build Rome’s first public library with the scrolls taken from your family’s collection,” she said. “Scrolls come with every boat from Alexandria. Until the library is built, most of them are stored in my husband’s
tablinum
, which I give you permission to visit.”

Our Library, gutted. I could not imagine what a loss this was to our scholars. A surge of anger bubbled up my throat as I realized she was smirking. She
enjoyed
watching me suffer at the news of the destruction of our precious Library! I would not give her the satisfaction. I brightened and smiled at her. “Thank you for the permission to read from this new and most valuable collection,” I said, and walked off.

On the way toward my enemy’s house, images of the endless colonnade of the dead and dying in Alexandria — so many of them scholars from our Library — burst into memory, and I suppressed a groan. I never knew when these images would descend and take my breath away. Sometimes I saw Tata dying in a pool of blood. Other times I heard the wails of our people at the news of Mother’s death.

I shook my head to clear it. Why did the gods send me these visions? Was it so that I would not forget the crimes against my family and my people? So I could keep close my pain in order to mete out a just retribution when I ruled Egypt? And when would Amunet’s agents contact us? When would something happen?

I entered Octavianus’s
tablinum
and walked straight into a wall — or at least that is what it felt like. I landed on my backside on the bumpy, tessellated floor, which scratched the backs of my thighs. Scroll dowels clattered everywhere and someone cursed in Latin. I looked up.

“Gods!” Juba said. “I did not see you! Are you all right?” His hand reached down to help me up.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, pulling my
tunica
down.

“I needed some additional scrolls for my research,” Juba said. “What about you? I would think this is the last place you would want to go.”

“Yes, well, I do not have much of a choice, if I want to read anything besides Roman homilies about virtuous Roman women,” I answered, referring to the scrolls Livia’s lady foisted on us.

Juba chuckled. We bent to pick up the scattered scrolls.

“Livia tells me a lot of these new scrolls are coming from our Library in Alexandria. Is that true?”

“That is the truth, yes,” he said, rerolling a scroll.

I looked around the crowded
tablinum
and sighed. I picked up a scroll thrown haphazardly on a table and put it up to my nose, breathing in the faint reedy smell of papyrus. Even the oldest scrolls still carried a hint of green from the marshy papyrus groves on the Nile. The scroll’s fastener and tag were made of leather. Papyrus and leather, the smells of the Great Library. I could almost see the sun motes dancing in the beams of light from the high windows … hear the low murmurings of scholars deep at work … the giggles as Alexandros and I hid from each other among the rows and rows of stacks overflowing with scrolls …

“So, you never told me. What scroll are you looking for?”

I cleared my throat. Should I tell him I was hoping to find Manetho’s
A History of Egypt
for its analyses of successful dynasties throughout Egypt’s long history? Mother had often referred to Manetho’s works. I decided to play it safe. “Oh, I am not sure. Anything that catches my fancy. What about you? What are you researching?”

He laughed. “You mean, what am I
not
researching? Everything about our history, I find fascinating.”

“Oh! Are there many works on Numidia’s history, then?” I asked. Besides knowing that Punic was the dominant language of the land, I knew very little about his homeland. It would not be a bad thing to learn more about Egypt’s North African neighbors. “Maybe you can recommend something for me to read about Numidia.”

He blinked. “No, I mean
Roman
history. I am doing research on Rome’s history.”

An awkward beat passed. “I’m sorry. I’m confused. You come from Numidia, yes?”

“I was born there, yes, but I am a Roman citizen,” he replied with finality.

I found this attitude surprising but did not know what else to say. So I pointed to his collection of scrolls and said, “How do you carry them all?”

He laughed. “My man has already left with one basketful.”

I playfully reached over, snatched a scroll from his arms, and unwound it. “Let’s see. Polybius.
The Roman Constitution
. Would that be the document that contains all of the laws Octavianus has broken to take sole control of Rome?”

He took in a hissing breath and looked around. “Gods, Cleopatra Selene! You should not joke about these things in Caesar’s own household. Do you not realize the danger?”

“Well, of course I realize the danger!” I snapped, embarrassed by his reaction. I had only meant to make him smile. After a breath, I added, “Thank you for using my full name.” Everybody in Rome, except for my brothers, had begun calling me Selene, dropping my mother’s name as if it had never existed. It did not matter how many times I insisted they use my correct name. The Romans had taken my parents, my brother, my people, and my home. I would not let them take my name too.

“You are welcome.”

I pulled another scroll from his pile and unwound it. “Oh! Caesar’s writings on the Wars in Africa. Caesarion used to read some of his tata’s books to me. So this is about what happened to you then, right? Isn’t that when Caesar killed your father and brought you to Rome?” I knew Juba had also been a prince, taken in defeat when Julius Caesar conquered his homeland, Numidia. He had been barely a year old when he was captured.

Juba pulled both scrolls from my hand and replaced them in his stack. He cleared his throat. “Julius Caesar did not kill my father.”

“He didn’t?”

“No, he did not. My father and his ally, the Roman general Petreius, committed suicide by battling each other to the death before Caesar’s legions arrived. They died honorable deaths as warriors.”

I looked down and swallowed. That’s what Tata had wanted — an honorable death as a warrior. Octavianus took that from him too. “What happened to your mother?” I asked. Juba hesitated. “I do not know.”

I could feel my jaw drop. “But how could you not know what happened to your own
mother
, the woman who gave you life, the queen of your rightful kingdom?”

He shrugged. “The destruction of my family was not a popular topic in Rome.”

“Was she killed?” I asked. “Did they cut down your brothers and sisters in the desert like they cut down Caesarion? Why did they save you and not anyone else in the royal household? Did your mother live long enough to —”

“I
said
, I do not know.”

“But why didn’t you —”

“Asking ‘why’ is an exercise in futility,” he interrupted. “Do you think I never asked myself why they saved me and killed the rest of my family? Do you think I never wondered what my mother was like? Or regretted never having my father beside me? The important question is not ‘Why was I saved?’ but ‘What will I do with the life that the gods decided to spare?’“

I was taken aback by his intensity, especially since he always seemed so calm and unflappable. “You are a Stoic, then,” I muttered, remembering Euphronius’s lessons.

“Yes, that’s right. I am a Stoic. I do not spend my passions railing against what has already happened or what cannot be changed.”

“But where is the line between accepting your fate and just
rolling over
? I am not trying to be rude, but as the rightful king of Numidia, shouldn’t you have worked to fight for control of what was yours by birthright?”

He laughed irritably. “When you have discovered a way to stop Rome from doing whatever it wants, please
do
let me know.” With that, he grabbed his scrolls and left the room.

Guiltily, I looked down at my hands. Juba was one of the few people in Rome who treated my brothers and me with respect and kindness; I should not have upset him. Worse, I had judged him even though I was no better. What had I done to change
my
situation?

We’d been in Rome ten months and still no agents had contacted us. Remembering the slaughtered priests and priestesses, I had a new and distressing thought. What if there
were
no agents in Rome? What if Octavianus had crucified every single person who might have helped us? What if we really were abandoned to this cruel fate, never to return to Egypt and rule?

I shivered. No. Amunet had instructed me to wait and trust Isis. And I would — I would trust the Goddess of All. I had no other choice.

The painting seemed to cover the sky. A voluptuous woman, fairer and fuller than Mother ever was, lay naked, her head thrown back and eyes closed as if in pain or ecstasy. The artists had added three-dimensional touches — a gold-painted uraeas crown on her head; gilded bangles at her wrists; and a giant snake, made out of cloth, bobbing in the wind with its teeth attached to her breast.

Eight men held the image aloft on thick wooden poles. Even with only torches for illumination, I could feel my face redden. Alexandros would not meet my eyes. He was as horrified as I was. Ptolly did not seem to understand.

“Herakles!” he nearly shouted when he saw it. “Look at that snake! Is that how that lady died?”

I could not speak.

“Ptolly,” Alexandros said in an undertone as people watched us for our reaction. “That is supposed to represent … It is supposed to be Mother.”

Ptolly looked up at the painting again. “But that’s not what Mother looked like! And this lady has no clothes on!”

The soldiers and servants milling around with torches laughed and made lewd sounds.

“Ptolly, look at me,” I said. He turned his kohl-outlined eyes toward me, his golden-striped headdress from Egypt glimmering in the predawn light. Octavianus had ordered that we dress in our official royal garb from home. “Remember what we talked about? We are going to hear people say terrible things about Mother and Tata today. We must be strong and pretend we don’t hear them.”

Ptolly scrunched his face in an exaggerated scowl. “This is stupid!”

“But there is nothing we can do about it.”

Exactly one year after Mother’s death, Octavianus was finally celebrating his victory over my parents with a triple Triumph — three days of parades followed by gladiatorial games and feasting. Besides the free wine that flowed, the highlight of each day was heaping abuse on the chained “Enemies of Rome” as they were marched in the parade, ending with their executions and the dumping of their bodies on the Forum steps. Two former allies of Tata — Adiatorix of Pontus and Alexander of Emesa — had been marched and executed the day before.

“But they won’t kill us,” Alexandros had insisted earlier. “Both Juba and Marcellus said that when the Triumph is over, we will be led back to the compound, where we’ll be safe.”

Octavia had also tried to comfort us. “Soon it will be over,” she had said earlier that morning as she held on tightly to Ptolly. “And everything will be all right again.”

I shivered now, despite the heat. Sweat already plastered my white pleated linen dress to my back, even though the sun had only just begun to peek over the hills. High summer in Rome was miserable enough without a long trek through the dusty, smoky, overcrowded city. Even from outside the gates, we could tell the streets reeked of urine, vomit, and wine.

Iron chains, painted to look like gold, connected me and my brothers by shackles around our necks. Huge, heavy links dragged on the ground between us. I scratched my scalp under the ceremonial braided wig they had forced me to wear. It was too hot for a wig this heavy, but we were to look as Egyptian as possible. Octavianus did not want people to remember that we were the children of their most beloved general, or that they were really celebrating the triumph of one Roman over another Roman.

Alexandros made a noise and motioned with his head. Octavianus was coming our way. As Roman tradition dictated, his face was covered in red paint, aping the statue of the great god in the Temple of Jupiter
Optimus Maximus. This was the first time we had seen him since those murderous days in Alexandria. He grinned at us as he passed, sending a chill down my spine. The sharp little teeth in that red face made him look like he had just raised his head from gorging on the carcass of a wild beast.

Octavianus walked to his chariot, which had been rolled up behind us. I groaned. That meant we were to be marched directly in front of him, that we were his “prized” captives. Since Mother escaped this humiliation, we would have to endure it for her.

I watched as the Roman senators lined up behind Octavianus. Two white-haired senators in their bordered togas gesticulated angrily at him. I edged closer to hear.

“But the Senate always marches
before
the Conqueror! What kind of message are you sending to make us march behind you?” cried one of the men.

“Ah, but you misunderstand, Lucius,” Octavianus said. “It is with great respect that I
allow
you to walk behind me. It is an honor for you.”

The senators exchanged a look. “Caesar, this is a break with tradition that smacks of illegal usurpation —”

“Move it! Move it!” cried an officer, gleaming in his bronze armor. “Get it into position now. The Triumph begins!”

At the sight of the man’s drawn broadsword, the old senators acquiesced, but not without withering looks at Octavianus. I had just witnessed Octavianus symbolically making himself more powerful than the Senate. And this from the man who claimed he was “restoring the Republic”! What kind of hold did he have on Rome that only two senators dared question him?

Marcellus trotted up on a gleaming white horse. As Octavianus’s heir, he would ride on the right side of the Imperator’s chariot. I felt a wave of shame that Marcellus would see me like this. I turned my back, knowing that Tiberius, riding on Octavianus’s left, would likely be smirking at us. Juba, I guessed, was probably marching with the
young officers behind the chariot. Livia, Octavia, and all the rest of the children would watch the procession from a special box in the grandstands.

The lowing of bulls and the roaring of the crowd indicated that the sacrificial animals had passed the gate. All of the fifty bulls would be sacrificed at the end of the Triumph. Soon, Rome would be awash in blood and entrails. We moved in the procession slowly, as carts and stretchers laden with all of the riches stolen from our palace and Egypt glimmered before us in the sun — huge mounds of gold, ivory, onyx, lapis lazuli, emeralds, spices, cinnamon, pearls. A group of men held aloft a painted representation of the billowing Nile, showing its seven sacred mouths. Greek
pedagogi
, dressed in the white tunics and white sandals of our Library scholars, pulled cartloads of scrolls plundered from our Great Library. Nearly naked, sweating slaves groaned under the ropes and pulleys of gigantic obelisks and sphinxes taken from our sacred temples. When they rolled out a giant terra-cotta re-creation of Pharos, our Great Lighthouse, one drunk yelled, “Hey, that lighthouse is not so big!”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Still, the supposed portrait of my mother in her death throes elicited the most responses. Catcalls, jeers, spitting, hissing, booing, throwing of rotten fruit and rocks — the painting seemed to excite the crowds into convulsions of hatred.

“Whore! Bitch! Slut! Sorceress!” The insults fell on us like hailstones raining down from the sky. We had no way to protect ourselves from the assault. The twisted, hate-filled faces of the Romans lining the streets, I knew, would haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life. The crowds grew even more venomous when they saw us.

“It’s the whore’s children!”

“The little bastards!”

“Kill ‘em!”

I raised my chin at the insults and looked straight ahead. Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I could tell that Alexandros had done the same.

“Where’s your great queen now?” voices jeered. Liquid spattered at my feet, and I realized someone had thrown a used chamber pot at us, the strong scent of urine filling the air. Amidst the shouting and insults, I heard Ptolly sniffing, “I hate them! I hate them!” I squeezed his hand.

At the sight of Octavianus, the crowds grew deafening. “Our Savior!”

“Io Caesar!”

“Bringer of peace!”

“Bringer of death,” I mumbled.

The procession crawled at an infinitesimal pace. The sun climbed in the sky and bore down upon us, making me pant under its weight of relentless, blinding heat. The reek of human sweat and cheap wine; the cacophony of yells, curses, and roars; the plumes of smoke from sacrificial fires gathering like black storm clouds over the city … As the iron chains dragged behind us, I felt as if I moved in a nightmare where my limbs grew heavier and heavier, trapping me in a paralysis of hopeless despair.

But we had no choice. We had to continue on. And I would not give these people the satisfaction of watching me stumble. Over the long, hot parade route, it was Ptolly who worried me the most. I stole a glance at him once and saw that he had been crying, the kohl melting into rivers of black running down his cheeks. He looked up at me with such pain-filled eyes that I could barely breathe.
Oh, sweet Ptolly
, I thought,
how can they make you do this
? Then I remembered that Juba was marched in a Triumph like this when he was little more than a baby. The difference was, he would not have understood the vitriol aimed at him. Almost-eight-year-old Ptolly did.

As if he were still a toddler, I leaned down to pick him up, wanting to ease his physical discomfort if nothing else. Alexandros saw what I was doing and touched my shoulder. “I have him,” he mouthed over the deafening noise, lifting Ptolly up into his arms. Ptolly wrapped his limbs around him, buried his face in Alexandros’s shoulder, and sobbed.

Some of the comments hurled at us began to change. I heard one woman shout, “By the gods, they are just children!” But the crowd turned on her, yelling “Traitor!” and “Gypto lover!”

That woman is someone’s mother
, I thought. I wanted to tell her that the painting that almost blotted the sky was not my mother, that my mother would have protected us from this. But then I remembered that we were here without her, and my thoughts grew muddled with despair and confusion. My tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth in a terrible thirst. Every muscle, straining at the weight of the chains, screamed to rest.

At congested points, the procession stopped and we were forced to stand still in the faces of those cursing us and praising Octavianus. The soldiers, bringing up the rear, bellowed ribald songs about the man who had led them to victory, a tradition Father had told me about. When I focused on the words of their song, though, I flushed in embarrassment. They were not about Octavianus at all.

I stole a look behind me as the crowds whooped and jeered. Octavianus also looked furious, but probably because he wanted them to sing his
praises
, not remind the people about Father. Any mention of Marcus Antonius could shatter the pretense that this had been anything but his made-up war to take sole control of Rome. My guess was proved right when the officers tried to shut their men up, but most of the soldiers were too drunk to pay much attention. So the commanders chanted a new song that, after a few minutes, hurtled down the line of legions like a wave moving to shore:

This ditty the soldiers belted out with gusto, for that was how Octavianus had gained their loyalty — the promise of land upon retirement. He could never have delivered on that promise without stealing Egypt’s wealth. I looked back at Octavianus again. He grinned, chest puffed out, looking like a bloody weasel.

I could not tell how many hours had passed. In front of the viewing stands, I straightened my back, knowing that Julia and all the others watched us. I glanced up at the special box where Livia and Octavia sat, and I spied Tonia weeping on her mother’s shoulder. The sight of her tears over her beloved Ptolly filled me with cruel satisfaction. Yet it also made me feel hopeful. Somebody else loved my little brother enough to cry over his mistreatment.

As the crowds pressed even tighter, we neared the last stretch of the procession. It would continue up to the Capitoline Hill and end at the Temple of Jupiter Maximus. Alexandros put Ptolly down. It was almost over.

Then — blackness. I gasped. A blanket had been thrown over us. “Do not fight us, do you understand?” someone growled in guttural Latin, a sword tip pressing into my back.