Cleopatra's Moon (18 page)

In the months that followed, it was a relief to learn that Octavianus cared to see us as little as we cared to see him. We went whole days, if not weeks, without running into the man all of Rome called its Savior. I made sure to avoid Livia as much as possible too. Perhaps if we didn’t flaunt our presence, I thought, she would not attempt to be rid of us again.

I calmed even more when I overhead one of the slaves gossiping about Octavianus’s meetings with client rulers from the eastern provinces.

“Whenever one of them complains about what is happening in their region,” the handsome young wine-pourer said, unaware that I had snuck into the kitchens to find a sweet treat for Ptolly, “Caesar reminds them of all the kindnesses he is showing the children of the Egyptian queen. He promises he will accord them the same.”

“Do they believe him?” the kitchen slave asked.

The wine-pourer shrugged and snickered. “They don’t have much choice now, do they?”

So even after the Triumph, we were still politically useful. That too felt like a shield. Still, as the months wore on, I chafed at our situation. When would Amunet’s agents contact us? What was happening in Egypt? Why had I heard nothing?

Senators’ sons and daughters often visited the compound to socialize with the children of the household. In the course of these visits, I had earned a reputation as an excellent
trigon
player, despite jeering and teasing from the boys. “
Trigon
is a boys’ game!” some of the senators’ sons would cry, but not for long.

Like everyone else, I took my turn as
pilecripi
, keeping score and chasing down balls. One day, one of the senators’ sons missed a hard throw and the small leather ball rolled almost all the way to the Neptune fountain in the side garden. As I snatched it up, I heard a voice from my nightmares. I froze.

Octavianus rounded the garden path beside a very overweight, very old man. He narrowed his eyes and showed his teeth to me. “Ah, Corbulo! Speak of the little gorgon herself.”

Gorgon
? I felt my face flush at the insult. Corbulo’s wrinkled neck jutted forward from his round, toga-clad middle. He looked like a tortoise stretching its small bald head out of an oversized shell.

“Oh, now, don’t insult the child, Octavianus. She appears quite delicious to me,” he said with a leer. “I have been curious to know if she favors her mother. I do not see much of Antonius in her, except for maybe the long legs.”

I pulled at my
tunica
, trying to cover my calves and ankles, as the old man examined me. Zosima had complained that all my Egyptian
tunicas
were too short, but I always ignored her when she tried to measure me for new Roman ones. Now I regretted it fiercely.

“Oh, yes, I see the resemblance,” the old man added. “You forget, I met the fascinating lady when she visited Julius all those years ago. And this one has that certain something her mother had, doesn’t she? I can’t put my finger on it, but I can’t look away either.”

Octavianus muttered something under his breath and both men tittered. With as much dignity as I could, I turned away and walked back toward the game.

“Yes, she will do quite nicely,” the old man croaked loud enough for me to hear.

I did not feel like playing after that. I tossed the ball back to the group of boys and wandered farther into the garden, confused. What did the old man mean? What was Octavianus planning?

I came upon Julia and one of the senator’s sons sitting on a marble bench under a tree. Julia leaned forward and kissed the boy on the
cheek. The boy’s face burned with what looked like delighted embarrassment before he raced off. Julia smirked at me.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, trying to cover my irritation at not finding privacy.

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” she asked as she watched the boy. I shrugged and began walking in the other direction. She jumped up from the bench and joined me.

“So, which of the boys have
you
kissed?” she asked.

I made a face. “None.”

“Well, why not?”

“Because … Because …” I looked over my shoulder at the group far on the other side of the garden. They seemed like puppies, barking, yelping, and tumbling over one another in the warm sunlight. “They are just
boys
.”

She laughed. “Oh, so it is the men you are after. Which one do you dream about? All the girls love Marcellus, though he hasn’t had his manhood ceremony yet.”

Again, I did not respond.

“Hmmm. So if not Marcellus, then it must be Juba, yes? He wears the toga of manhood. He is twenty.”

A spike of irritation burst up my chest. “Julia, please leave me alone.”

“Juba is so very handsome,” she continued as if she had not heard me. “Too bad he is like a brother. But what am I saying? You are Ptolemy. You would have no problem with that, would you?”

I stopped. “Julia, what do you want?”

“Nothing. It’s just that I have watched you and noticed the way your eyes follow Juba. How you hang on every word he says when you two have your little scroll-fests. I think you like him.”

“I don’t like Juba in that way,” I said, setting off again.

She caught up to me. “Do you ever think about who you will marry?” she asked in an innocent voice. “Tata probably wants you married off soon. Imagine the favors people will owe him!”

The idea of marrying some smug, arrogant Roman made my blood run cold. And the idea that Octavianus might be bargaining favors in exchange for me made bile rise in my throat — especially after that encounter with Corbulo.

“I am never getting married,” I said.

Julia laughed. “Of course you will! You are a prize, ‘sister.’ Although not getting married might be fun too. That way you can take as many lovers as you want. You know. Like your mother.”

If I had learned anything in Rome, it was to not respond to Julia’s baiting about Mother, so I just stalked off instead. Still, her insinuations rankled. Mother had loved only two men her whole life — Julius Caesar and my tata. Yet Romans continued to spread lies about Mother’s supposed wanton nature.

Unfortunately, though, Julia’s comments about Juba forced me to admit that she was right about my attraction to him. I had often looked for ways to “accidentally” run into him when he returned from his forays outside the compound. I read books that I thought might impress him; I watched his training sessions with Alexandros, admiring his strength, grace, and power.

Worse, I began comparing him to other boys. I contemplated his kindness every time I witnessed casual Roman cruelty; I remembered his grace every time an awkward boy stumbled. It wasn’t long before, to my embarrassment, I began wondering what it would be like to kiss him.

Ever-observant Julia noticed my increasing awkwardness around him — an opportunity she did not let slip past.

“You do know,” Julia said one day as we immersed ourselves in the steaming hot water of the baths, “that Juba is the favorite of bored young wives married to decrepit old senators?”

I sighed. Why couldn’t Marcella be in the water instead of Julia? It was much more pleasant to talk to her. But both Marcellas and both Antonias stood whispering and giggling as the bath slaves scraped them with strigils.

“I am sure your father loves all those married women having affairs,” I replied, trying to move the focus onto her tata, with whom she had a contentious relationship. Octavianus talked incessantly of bringing back Rome’s “pious” modesty, especially for women, decrying the freedoms Roman women enjoyed. But, as always, he had to tread carefully, lest people noticed that as he took the freedoms of women away, he stripped
all
Romans of their liberty.

Unfortunately, Julia continued as if I had never even spoken. “Yes, all those bored beauties. They find Juba irresistible. I have heard he’s quite shy, and that makes the women even bolder in their pursuit of him.”

“I thought
you
had a crush on Tiberius,” I countered, knowing it was not true but desperate to take the focus off of Juba.

“Tiberius?” she laughed. “He is my stepbrother!”

“Yes, but I have seen your eyes follow him when you think no one is looking,” I lied.

She sat up, only her outraged blue eyes visible through the thick vapor from the hypocaust. “That is not true! I
hate
Tiberius,” she hissed. “And, again, he is my
stepbrother
. We are not like you Ptolemies!”

I shrugged and did not say anything else, satisfied that I had rattled her. I leaned back against the marble-tiled lip of the bath edge, watching as beams of sunlight poured through the high windows and danced with the swirling smoke of rising steam.

Despite myself, after Julia’s comments, I spent a ridiculous amount of time wondering which Roman beauties had attracted Juba’s attention and if he had fallen in love with any of them. This only served to make my discomfort around him even more acute, though that never stopped me from going to my regular spot to watch him train Alexandros.

On one particularly beautiful spring afternoon, I took my place under the sweet citron tree as usual. Juba appeared but my brother did
not. After setting out the wooden fighting equipment, Juba looked around. He caught sight of me under the tree. Gods! Did he know that I came here to watch him? My stomach tightened as he approached, and I looked to the side, trying to appear as if I were lost in thought. “Where is your brother?” he asked.

“I do not know,” I said, “but I think I saw Julia chasing him earlier with a question.”

“I keep telling him he must work on his speed.” Juba chuckled. “I’ll give him some time in case he escapes.”

An awkward silence stretched. I kept my eyes focused on the scroll on my lap, but I could not read a word. I was intensely aware of his closeness and of the spicy warm scent of his skin. He wore a sleeveless tunic and had his arms around his knees. I sneaked peeks at his arms, wondering what it would feel like to have them around me.

He leaned back on his elbows, squinting into the distance. “What are you reading?” he asked.

I jumped. “Oh. Um. Nothing, really.” I could not bear to tell him that I had brought the love poems of Catullus. I had not been able to convince myself to read dry treatises on Egyptian politics and finance that might one day help me rule. But I did not want to reveal I was reading scandalous poems about love either.

When Juba raised his eyebrows, smiling in curiosity, I realized I needed to fend off more questions with a better answer. “Just some writings on the … um … the Epicureans.”

“Really?” he asked, squinting up at me. “I did not picture you as an Epicurean.”

“I’m not. I’m just reading about it. But why do you say that?”

“Well, we both know you are not a Stoic.” He smiled. “I picture you more as a follower of Socrates.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one, you never stop asking questions. And sometimes,” he laughed, “those questions are as annoying as a gadfly!”

He thought of me as a
gadfly
? He must have seen the expression on my face because he pushed up from his elbows. “I meant no insult, Cleopatra Selene.”

Only Juba and my brothers still used my full name, which I appreciated more than he knew. In the awkward silence that followed, he picked up a wineskin that he’d had draped over his shoulder. “And to prove my goodwill, I will offer you the first sip of our exercise wine.”

“Exercise wine?” I laughed.

He smiled, his white teeth gleaming. “Yes, exercise wine. Mostly water with a little bit of wine and honey for energy. Here.” He removed the top and indicated he would pour some in my mouth. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. I felt the sunlight on my face. The smell of leather from the wineskin. Warm liquid pooling in my mouth. The sweet tang of honeyed wine. I swallowed slowly.

He poured some for himself. I watched him close his eyes and open his mouth to receive the liquid, then bring his lips together, throat moving as he swallowed. He opened his eyes and met mine.

“What?” he asked, smiling. “Did I spill some down my chin or something?”

He was so close. The sun so warm, the air so heavy with the sweet scent of citron blossoms. I leaned over without thinking and touched my lips to his, wanting to taste the mixture of sun and wine on them, wanting to taste
him
. I had never kissed anyone before.

I felt him stiffen, then pull away. “Selene,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “You cannot … You are just a child.”

So that was how he saw me — as both an annoying gadfly and a silly child. Mortified, I scrambled to my feet.

“Wait! Cleopatra Selene, I did not mean to …”

I didn’t hear anything else he said. I ran as fast as I could, past our complex and into the public gardens that Caesarion’s tata had built for the people of Rome. I knew it was dangerous for a girl to wander the gardens unattended, but I wanted to get as far as possible from everybody and everything I knew.

When I could run no more, I collapsed under a cypress. Why had I done that? Why had I kissed him? I would never be able to look him in the eye again. I groaned with shame and put my head down on my knees. I had embarrassed myself and embarrassed him.

Worse, I had learned something about myself that cut to the quick. I was not as beautiful, not as compelling, not as enticing as I had secretly hoped I would grow to be. Instead, the daughter of the charismatic, irresistible Cleopatra VII was an awkward, angry “gadfly” who repelled men. I had not only disappointed myself but, I realized with despair, had Mother lived, I probably would have disappointed her too.

In the weeks that followed, I avoided all places where I might run into Juba. I could not bear the thought of him looking upon me with pity. To my relief, he must have been trying to avoid me too, for we went a long time without seeing each other.

Sometimes, when reading in the main garden, I would find Marcellus staring at me as he spoke privately to one of Octavianus’s endless petitioners. He’d smile and wink over the heads of the invariably balding, portly, toga-swaddled supplicants. Sometimes he even came and sat beside me on the marble bench under the shaded canopy.

“You are always reading, Selene,” he commented one day. “You must tell me what you find so fascinating.”

I shrugged, feeling both delighted and embarrassed that he had noticed me at all. His kindness was like a balm. Perhaps I was not so hideous, I thought, if handsome Marcellus looked at me without turning into stone.

Still, Juba’s rejection forced me to reassess how I might or might not be like Mother. I could accept that I was not as beautiful and compelling as she was as long as I reminded myself that I had her intelligence and drive. Ultimately, that would serve me better as ruler, wouldn’t it?

I grew impatient remembering Amunet’s orders to wait. Surely, I thought, there had to be some movement toward bringing us back to Egypt by now! Then I wondered if I had been too passive. Mother, after all, had always acted boldly and swiftly. Perhaps they awaited some sign from me.

It was time to take action. Unfortunately, I didn’t know where to begin. Talking to those who worshipped Isis would have been the natural route, but Octavianus had destroyed all of the Isis temples in the city and banned all worship of the Goddess within city walls. Most of
the followers of Isis in Rome traveled to the temple outside Capua to honor the Goddess. I could find no reason to travel to Capua that would not raise eyebrows or suspicions, so I decided to do the next best thing. I would send a message to the Capuan High Priest or Priestess of Isis.

But Zosima would hear none of it when I asked her to convey the message for me.

“Absolutely not!” she hissed, eyes wide with horror at my suggestion. “Octavianus has had every follower of Isis in this household beaten or purged! I will not give him an excuse to kill us, child, and I forbid you from pursuing it as well.”

I did not know which made me angrier — that she called me “child” or that she treated me as one. Well, if she wouldn’t do it, I would ask someone else!

The Goddess’s emphasis on salvation and love attracted large numbers of the poor and enslaved. Despite Octavianus’s harsh treatment, surely some of the household slaves still followed the Goddess, even if they kept it a secret. I began taking long walks around the compound, looking for any sign of an Isis worshipper among the bustling slaves. As I had always been known to “wander,” nobody thought it odd. Or at least I hoped so.

Once, one of the laundry slaves watched me carefully as I meandered among piles of clothing. The shaded outdoor courtyard reeked of vinegar, stale urine for bleaching, and strange-smelling solvents so harsh they made my eyes water. When I looked at the young laundry slave, she gave a slight bow of the head. Did that mean she knew who I was? Might she help me?

In a casual way, I drifted toward her. Her eyes widened in fear. She looked down, suddenly fascinated by a mud stain on a tunic that she had been scrubbing. She did not look up at me again, even when I stood over her.

“Tell me,” I said quietly. “Are you a follower of the Goddess of Egypt?”

She shook her head. “It is forbidden,” she whispered. “By Caesar’s command.”

“So you are not …”

“No! I am not!” she said in a hoarse whisper.

I sighed and began turning away when she added, “But I know someone who is. I will send him to you.”

My heart thudded in excitement. “Yes? I … I thank you,” I whispered.

Her lips curled upward slightly. “It is an honor to serve you, Daughter of Ra,” she breathed.

For weeks afterward, I searched the faces of every servant or slave who passed my way. But nobody approached me; nobody ever made any kind of contact. Had that girl lied just to get me away from her?

I was wandering on the outer edge of one of the side gardens when I spotted a young, sweat-soaked worker carrying a large basket of blooms from the outer garden.

“Pardon me, young
domina
,” he said, holding up what I could now see was a collection of bloodred roses. “Would you like to smell their perfume?”

I paused. Roses were the flowers of the Goddess. Was this an innocent request or did it have some meaning?

The young man took off his floppy, wide-brimmed hat. As I approached, he casually scratched at a grimy circlet of linen around his wrist. He looked at me, then down at his wrist again.

I followed his eyes. There! Underneath the bunched-up fabric was a tiny black tattoo of the Knot of Isis, just like the sacred amulet that Mother had given me. My heart lurched with recognition and excitement. He covered the tiny mark and said, “Flowers fit for a goddess, yes?”

He had the fair, freckled skin and rust-colored hair of a Gaul or Celt. I wondered if he had been born a slave or captured in Gaul or in Britannia. Yet he was a devotee of Isis! Truly the Goddess worked in mysterious ways.

I bent my head toward the blooms and sniffed deeply. As I reached for one, the young man let go of the whole basket. Flowers scattered everywhere.

The freedman in charge of the gardens eyed him with irritation. I dropped to my knees to help gather the blooms as the young man whispered, “The Priestess of Capua has not forgotten you. Plans are underw —”

Suddenly, the young man grunted and toppled over. The freedman had kicked him. “You clumsy oaf!” he yelled. “You do not let a noble help you clean up your mess!” He turned to me. “Forgive this untrained idiot, young mistress,” he said.

I stood up quickly, angry at the young man’s mistreatment, and opened my mouth to complain, but the young gardener shoved a handful of blooms toward me so quickly, a few petals shot into the air. Small trickles of blood from the thorns he had grasped oozed down the side of his dirt-caked palm.

“Please, take these as an offering to the
Bona Dea
,” he pleaded. “May the Great Goddess forgive my trespass.”

Smart boy
, I thought. Telling me to make an offering to the
Bona Dea
— the good goddess of Rome — sounded innocent enough. But we both knew he meant Isis.

The overseer grunted in approval. I took the flowers gingerly and nodded my thanks. My heart felt like a runaway stallion at the chariot races, but I walked toward our wing with a studied slowness.

Finally, it has begun
, I chanted to myself, barely able to contain my excitement.
The Priestess of Capua knows I am ready. It has begun
!