Cleopatra's Moon (19 page)

“There you are,” Zosima cried as I returned from the rose garden. “Where have you been?” She sighed. “Between worrying about you and Ptolly, it is a wonder I have any hair left.”

I turned. “What do you mean? Why were you worrying about Ptolly?”

“He took sick early this morning with a fever.” As a rule, my brothers and I were inordinately healthy, but all fevers were a cause for concern. “They have taken him to the sickroom in Livia’s house,” she continued. “Livia’s doctor is taking care of him.”

I dropped the roses and ran, a chill traveling down my spine. Why was Ptolly in Livia’s sickroom? Was she up to something? Could poison cause a fever? And even if it couldn’t, would she use his fever as an opportunity to hurt him? After her failed execution attempt at her husband’s Triumph, I had assumed Livia had decided that the risk of exposure was too great — that hurting us was not worth the effort. Had she just been biding her time, waiting for the right moment to strike, aiming at the youngest and weakest of us?

When I burst into the sickroom, I discovered Ptolly asleep, his face pale and sweating. Octavia sat across from him, staring into his closed eyes. She looked up when I entered.

“How is he?” I asked.

Octavia looked haunted, tormented even. “What is wrong?” I asked more urgently, trying but failing to keep the panic out of my voice.

Her face cleared as she rearranged her expression into one of mild concern. She even tried to smile. “Some sort of fever that came on suddenly,” she whispered. “I brought him some medicine.” She held up a clay drinking cup as if she were toasting me.

“Should we wake him to administer it?” I asked. If the medicine might help, why had she not given it to him yet?

She smiled apologetically. “I cannot wake a sleeping child,” she whispered. “Isn’t Marcus so beautiful, so peaceful when he sleeps? He always did sleep deeply.”

I realized I was not sure whether she was talking about Ptolly or Tata. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Did she think Ptolly
was
Father?

“Should I … do you want me to wake him and give him his medicine?”

She hesitated. “Yes, maybe you should do it.” But she did not move.

The odd look on her face and the fact that we were near Livia’s rooms added to my unease. I remembered how very soon after arriving, I overheard one of the slaves claim that Livia grew poisonous plants by moonlight and that she would likely use one of her potions against us.

“Who … who made up the medicine?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “Did Livia mix the tincture?”

Never taking her eyes off Ptolly, Octavia answered, “No, I … yes. Livia mixed it by her own hand. She is quite an adept healer, did you know that?”

I felt cold, then hot with fear. Could it be possible that Livia had ordered Ptolly moved near her
medicus
just for appearances, so it would look like she was taking special care of him when she was doing the opposite? Would she take advantage of his fever as an excuse to kill him so there would be fewer questions?

“I will sit with him now,” I said. “Give me the medicine. I will make him drink it soon.”

I held my hand out, willing her to give me the cup. She stood, still staring at him, then sighed. “Yes, I think it would be better if you administered it.” She ignored my hand and placed the cup on a low table as she walked out of the room. I waited for her footsteps to disappear down the hall, then rushed to the cup and sniffed it. I detected only the sweetness of honey over an earthy, rain-on-mud smell. But how could I tell if it was poisoned? What did poison smell like? Bitter or sweet? How would I know?

Zosima stepped in after Octavia left. “How is … What are you doing?”

I straightened. “Livia mixed this medicine,” I whispered.

Her eyes grew wide. She understood my meaning — I had warned Zosima and my brothers well about Livia. Without saying a word, she took the cup and walked out of the room to dispose of it.

Ptolly’s fever clung to him like a choking vine. I tried to get him moved to my
cubiculum
so I could watch him there, but word came from Livia that he was to stay in her quarters.

“She does not want his illness spreading to the other children,” her lady announced. This, of course, only made me more suspicious. Did Livia want him under her roof so that she could harm him without witnesses?

So I virtually lived by his side, taking breaks only when Zosima or Alexandros sat in my place. We surrounded him like multiheaded Cerberus guarding the gates of the underworld, making sure no potion or tincture mixed by Livia’s hands crossed his lips.

Livia’s physician seemed competent enough. He referred to himself as an
iatros
, healer, instead of
medicus
, so we knew he was Greek. The Romans turned to the Greeks for everything of importance.

“Look who I have brought!” I announced on the fifth day of Ptolly’s illness.

“Sebi!” he cried when he saw his cat in my arms. My cat, not about to be left behind, followed. I did not know how Livia felt about our cats settling into her house, but I did not care. Sebi curled up at Ptolly’s side immediately, and I said a prayer to Bastet that, through our cats, the goddess would keep him safe from Livia too.

The
iatros
came in soon after, holding a shallow wooden bowl filled with bloodsucking leeches, which he would use on Ptolly to balance his humors. I put my head down between my knees so I would not get sick
when he placed the slimy creatures on Ptolly’s bare back. Ptolly laughed, despite his growing weakness.

“You had better watch out, sister. Now that I know how much you hate these little bloodsuckers, I may sneak in your room at night and put some on you while you sleep!” he teased.

“Don’t you dare!” I said, raising my head. “That is not funny and I will …” But I had to lower my head again at the sight of the glistening dark creatures leaving trails of slime on my little brother’s back.

When I wasn’t with Ptolly, I took long walks through the various gardens and courtyards of the compound, hoping to find the young gardener with the Isis knot tattoo. I had heard nothing more from him or anybody else, and I found this odd — so odd that I began to wonder whether I had dreamt the entire encounter.

One afternoon, I forced myself to stroll around Octavianus’s
peristylum
, the open garden attached to his house, hoping I might find the mysterious young Celt there. Usually, I avoided any place where I might run into Octavianus, but I had tried every other garden in the network of estates.

In the small marble
impluvium
, a white lotus floated in sparkling water. In a flash, I remembered the shimmering turquoise water in Mother’s secret rooftop pool, the joy of presenting her with a blue lotus. How Mother had smiled and taken an exaggerated sniff to please me. How she had reassured me — days before leaving for Actium — that all would be well …

I shook my head at the memory, puzzled as to why my enemy would have a flower so closely associated with Egypt in his personal garden. I looked around at the proliferation of pots crowding the small space, many of which were filled with strange and exotic blooms and leaves.

“Admiring our work, mistress?” the head gardener, the one who had kicked the Celt boy, asked.

“Beautiful,” I answered stiffly.

“This one comes from Spain.” He pointed to a bright pink flower, multilayered with white-ridged edges. “And that one comes from Gaul.” He indicated a thick stalk bearing yellow blooms in a tower formation.

I understood then. Octavianus, through flowers, was showing off all the areas of the world he controlled, including Egypt. I sighed with irritation. But then I realized the head gardener might know something useful to me.

“Where is the boy I saw picking roses last week?”

The man laughed. “I have many boys who pick roses for me! Which one do you mean?”

“He …” I was about to say he bore the Knot of Isis mark but quickly caught myself. “The Celt boy, the young man with freckles,” I began.

“Now, why would you want to know that?” a voice boomed behind me, and I jumped.

Marcellus. He grinned at my surprised expression. “I thought I saw a nymph gliding among the flowers and I was right!”

“
Dominus
.” The man lowered his eyes and turned to go.

“Wait! Do you know which boy I mean? Do you know where I might find him?”

The gardener’s face closed in wariness. “I am sorry, young mistress. The boy I think you mean was flogged and sold days ago.”

“What? Why?”

“I do not know. I do not question
Domina’s
orders.” He turned and scuttled away.

“Oh, don’t tell me you have a crush on a mere garden boy, Selene!” Marcellus said, smiling down at me. “You must set your sights higher! Although,” he laughed, “almost everybody falls for a slave at least once, even the best of us.”

“I didn’t … I don’t have a crush …” I did not know what to say. Livia had the boy whipped and sold. What did this mean? Was it because I had talked to him about Isis? Because he made contact with
the priestess for me? But how would she know? And how would I learn the priestess’s plans if my messenger was gone?

“Gods, Selene, you look like you have seen a
daemon
! Are you all right?”

“Yes. I … er,” I stammered.

“Ah, poor thing. You really did fancy yourself in love with this boy, didn’t you?”

“No, I
…”

“Come. I was about to visit your little brother. Would you like to escort me there?”

I nodded dumbly. We turned toward Livia’s house, Marcellus’s warm hand on my back.

The leeches, it appeared, did nothing to reduce Ptolly’s fever. “Little Bull, you have to hurry up and get well so we can leave this house and go back to Octavia’s!” I told him one morning.

“I don’t wanna go back to Octavia’s house,” Ptolly whined. His words surprised me, but I shrugged it off to the peevishness that came with feeling miserable.

Octavia’s gentle voice echoed down the hallway. “How is my sweet boy doing?” she asked, and then winced as she entered the room. “Oh, I didn’t realize he was asleep,” she added in a softer voice.

I whipped my head around back to Ptolly, only to see him pretending slumber. But why would he do that?

Octavia turned to me. “How is he today?” she asked in a whisper, coming to his side. She stroked his head and frowned. “He is still much too warm!”

“He is,” I agreed.

She adjusted a small pillow on a three-legged stool and sat. “Why don’t you go? I’ll sit with him now.”

“I have nowhere else I want to be,” I said softly. “We can sit together, if you like.” In avoiding Livia, I had found I ended up avoiding Octavia
too, which I did not like. Her presence calmed me, and I even hoped Livia would come by and see her with Ptolly and me as a reminder that she dared not hurt us while Octavia was nearby.

“How is Tonia holding up without Ptolly to play with every day?” I asked in a low voice.

Octavia smiled. “She is furious that I won’t allow her to visit him. But we cannot risk any of the other children getting sick. By the gods, but she does have a temper!”

“Ptolly and Tonia are so much alike,” I agreed, smiling. “They are both just like their tata.”

She stood up. “Yes, well. I just remembered that I need to talk to both Antonia and Tonia about their studies. I will come back to see my little Marcus later.”

She left the room so quickly, I could only stare after her, wondering if I’d said something wrong.

When we could no longer hear her footsteps, Ptolly opened his eyes. “You were faking!” I whispered. “Are you mad at Octavia?”

Ptolly shrugged. “A little.”

“Why?”

“I told her she should call me by my real name. She keeps trying to treat me like a baby. But I am nine now, and I do not want to sleep in her room anymore or be called ‘little Marcus.’“

Was that why Octavia seemed so sad and haunted that first day of his illness? His assertion of independence pleased me, but I guessed that it also hurt Octavia. I hated the idea of one of us hurting the person responsible for our safety, but there was nothing I could do. Ptolly was growing up.

I spent most of my time with him reading his favorite battle scenes from
The Iliad
. His enthusiasm for the blood and gore of the poem never waned. “Read the part where Menelaos hits Peisandros so hard on the head with his sword, his eyeballs pop out!” Ptolly demanded.

I smiled, as it always amazed me how — when it came to the violent scenes — Ptolly had impeccable recall. But then I grew concerned,
noticing that he had closed his eyes with fatigue after making the request. Just then Juba walked in. “Good morning, young Achilles!” he said.

Ptolly opened his eyes and smiled at him. This was the first time I had crossed paths with Juba since I tried to kiss him. Distracted as I was by my fears for Ptolly, I had almost forgotten the entire humiliating event. Almost.

“Good morning to you too, Cleopatra Selene,” Juba said, smiling.

“Good morning,” I mumbled, pretending that I had lost my place in the scroll and I was trying to find it.

“Juba, you usually come when Alexandros is here,” Ptolly said. “You are early.”

Shame swelled in my chest at this confirmation that Juba had indeed been trying to avoid me. I continued searching the scroll so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

“Read!” Ptolly commanded me, closing his eyes again.

I read aloud until he slept, which wasn’t long, all the time aware that Juba was watching me. When I stopped reading, the only sound in the room was Ptolly’s breathing.

“Cleopatra Selene,” Juba said quietly, “I wanted to apologize …”

“No,” I said. “Please don’t. It is forgotten.” I smiled brightly at him. “Truly, that was ages ago. We need not revisit it.”

Juba looked down. “It is just that …”

Gods, I could not bear to rehash it! “So, why have you come in the morning when you usually visit later?” I interrupted, desperate to change the subject.

He stopped and took a breath. “I am going to a banquet at Varro’s tonight.”