Cleopatra's Moon (21 page)

Juba startled. “What?”

“Fresh blood from a newly slaughtered black dog,” I repeated.

He shook his head, eyes wide. “Cleopatra Selene,” he whispered. “I am afraid you are going mad.”

“I am not, I swear!”

With one hand, he rubbed the wild locks off of my face, leaving his palm cupping my cheek. I closed my eyes and leaned into his hand, melting into his touch. “Oh, child,” he whispered. “You cannot …”

I reared back as if I’d been slapped.
Child
— again? I was no child, I knew that now. My soul felt as old and dried up as the Red Lands of Egypt’s deserts.

“There is no other way,” I said, my voice hard. “I cannot do it myself. I need you to do this for me.”

“But why would you need such a thing?”

“To convince Octavianus to let us take care of Ptolly the proper way.”

“How in Hades’ name would dog blood help you do that?”

“For a ritual,” I explained. “One that the Priestess of Isis in Egypt herself taught me.”

When Juba did not speak, I tried again. “I have jewels from my mother that Zosima hid for me before we left Egypt,” I said. “I could give you those in exchange for what I need.”

Juba shook his head. “Money is not the issue. I just do not understand why —”

“Please, Juba,” I begged. “I am not mad now, but I fear I will become so unless I succeed. The Lady of Isis told me I would need it to save the sons of Egypt. Ptolly is a son of Egypt. Do you not see? The Goddess
knew I would need this! She is my savior, my protectress. I
must
honor her wishes.”

Juba flicked his gaze to Alexandros, who had stirred. “You will not harm anyone with this? It is for Ptolly?”

“No, I will not harm anyone. And yes, it is for Ptolly!”

“Gods, where will I find the blood of a black dog?” Juba said, then put up his hand. “Never mind. One can find anything in Rome for the right price. What else?”

I closed my eyes, remembering. “An ivory tusk, carved with images of my gods destroying their enemies. And a goat-hair brush.”

Juba exhaled loudly. “You are not making this simple, are you? But I have friends who are secret worshippers of the Goddess. They will help me.”

“We do not have much time. I must perform the ritual right away, before Octavianus throws my brother on the pyre.”

Juba nodded, and I closed my eyes in relief.

At first light, Juba left to gather the things I needed, still looking none too happy about it. I paced in front of Ptolly’s body, thinking, thinking. I had to be able to get near Octavianus’s sleeping room in the hours just before sunrise to perform the ritual. But how could I do that without being detected by him or Thyrsus?

I looked at the low wooden table next to my brother where two full cups of poppy tea lay untouched. Livia had ordered her
iatros
to make them for us after Ptolly’s death, but I had set mine aside and convinced Alexandros not to touch his either. And because no servant dared enter this “Room of Death,” nobody knew that we had the sleeping potion at our fingertips.

I smiled.

As the day wore on, Alexandros watched my manic pacing with a question in his eyes, but he never said anything. Most of the time, he seemed lost to himself anyway, staring at nothing, saying nothing, but like me, never leaving Ptolly’s side.

When darkness fell that evening, Zosima nodded to me and took away the cups of poppy tea. She was to sneak into the servants’ quarters and add the sleeping potion to Octavianus’s and Thyrsus’s goblets of night wine.

I waited for Juba. He came into the room as he had the night before but this time carrying two additional pallets — one for himself, one for me.

“You will sleep here again tonight?” I asked, surprised.

“I feel compelled to,” he said grimly. “Something tells me you may need my protection.”

When Alexandros finally dropped off to sleep, Juba whispered in my ear, “My man has procured what you asked for. You will find the things hidden behind the oleander bush by the small fountain in the old garden.”

Ptolly’s
ka
came to me when I dozed. He reached his arms up to me, but when I went to pick him up, he disappeared. I must have cried in my sleep, for I woke myself up, gasping for breath. But his
ka’s
visit only strengthened my resolve.

In the deepest dark of night, I snuck out of the room, watery moonlight lighting my way to the baths, where the hypocaust workers would soon begin stoking the great fires that would provide us with heated water. With shaking hands, I crept into the cavernous marble room, stripped, and immersed myself in the chilly water. I was not able to purify myself as Amunet and I had done at the Isis Temple, but this would have to do.

I shivered as I climbed out and donned the white linen tunic Zosima had left for me. It stuck to my still-wet body. Gods, why had I not
thought to plant a towel too! The fabric clung to my newly rounded breasts and hips. When had this shift grown too small?

Blindly, I felt around the floor until I found the sharp edge of the dagger I had instructed Zosima to leave for me. It was Mother’s dagger, the one Katep claimed Mother had tried to use on herself before getting captured, but I knew better. She had intended to use it on her attacker. I would do the same if I were caught. When my fingers brushed the cool lapis lazuli handle, I released a long breath, unaware that I had been holding it tight within my chest. I hid the dagger in the folds of my belt, checking multiple times that I could draw it out quickly.

I found the clay amphora filled with a black liquid under the oleander bush. I put my nose to the clay jar. Yes, blood. But where were the ivory tusk and goat-hair brush?

I felt around in the dark and found two bundles. The small one contained the ivory and brush. The other one felt wet and heavy. When I opened it up to peer in by the light of the moon and stars, I almost cried out.

The head of the black dog! Gods, I hadn’t asked for this. Why did Juba’s man leave the head here? My heart raced from fear, fatigue, lack of food. Would the god be angry? Did he see it as defilement?

But what if — what if it was Anubis himself who spurred Juba’s man to leave the head for me? What if it was a gift from the great Dark God? I would have to take it with me. I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the darkness in prayer:

I slid without notice into the colonnaded garden outside Octavianus’s room. Thyrsus lay in front of his master’s
cubiculum
on a rumpled rush mat, a tray with wine and two cups by his head. I hid in the shadows of
the corner columns and cleared my throat. Nothing. Thyrsus was a notoriously light sleeper. It appeared the poppy wine had done its job.

Too afraid to step into the center of the
peristylum
, where the moonlight might make me obvious, I put down my bundles and set to work in the shadows. With the ivory tusk covered in hieroglyphs and magic symbols, I drew a circle of protection on the sand around myself. I could not remember the ancient words Amunet had used, but I thought the god would forgive me for that.

I closed the circle with a trembling hand. Fear gripped my lungs and I fought for breath. I remembered then the terror I felt with Amunet on the day she showed me the spell. This intense fear meant the god was near.

I dipped the goat-hair brush into the amphora of blood. With a shaking hand, I drew the god’s profile on the sand at my bare feet — the long snout, the tall ears, the fierce eyes. “O Great Son of Osiris, Jackal Ruler of the Bows, God of the Necropolis. I ask your protection for a son of Egypt,” I prayed as I painted. “May you guide my hand in delivering him intact to you, so that his
ka
lives on according to your judgment….”

Fear traveled up my shaking hands all the way to my chattering teeth. I dropped the brush in the amphora and removed the dog head from its soaked woolen wrapping. I stared into one blank, dark eye.

The god’s fear held me. “What do I do with this symbol of your greatness, O God?” I asked.

I stood, swaying, waiting for an answer. Nothing came. I thought about my original plan. To have Octavianus see the spell in blood and fear that he had angered the Dark God. To have that sight fill him with such terror that he would change his mind about caring for Ptolly’s body in the Egyptian manner.

But a new thought stopped my breath. What if he never saw the blood-soaked image? What if I had made a mistake in putting it in the corner? I groaned inwardly. Octavianus had to know that Anubis had been called and that Anubis would demand the sacred rites for a prince of Egypt. He
had
to!

Then, as if the god himself spoke to me, I knew what I must do. I thanked the god and asked that the circle of protection I had drawn follow me into my enemy’s sleeping chamber.

I stepped over Thyrsus and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark of the
cubiculum
. Octavianus lay as if dead, one arm over his eyes. The room stank of stale air and sweat.

Such a surge of hatred roiled in my blood at the destroyer of my family, I grew dizzy for a moment. An ugly whisper of a thought —
kill him
— entered my awareness. Goddess help me, but I considered it. Drugged as he was, he was completely at my mercy. My fingers traced the dagger hidden in my belt. I could cut his throat, I could watch as his vile blood poured forth, ending the nightmare of pain and death he had caused.

Mother would do it
, I prompted myself.
She wouldn’t even hesitate
. With a shaking hand, I withdrew the dagger and held it over his skinny neck.

Mother would want me to do this, to avenge her
! I repeated. But still, I could not make my hand move. Was Anubis staying me? I remembered an image in Amunet’s temple of Anubis weighing a heart against the Feather of Truth. Anubis, Judge of Truth, wanted me to live by
ma’at
and pass the test. I would not dishonor the god or risk Ptolly’s
ka
with an act that would do nothing to get us back to Egypt. I slid the dagger back into my belt.

Still, I wanted Octavianus to
suffer
. I pulled his blanket aside ever so slowly. He did not move. I slipped the heavy, blood-soaked head of Anubis’s representative on earth into the bed beside my enemy, as if it were about to take a bite of his torso. Before releasing my hands, I prayed over it. “May your power frighten our enemy. May it be enough to save Ptolly’s
ka
.”

I stretched the blanket over them both, wiping my bloodstained hands over the ends of his coverlet. Before bolting from the room, I looked into Octavianus’s face. “Just so we are clear,” I whispered. “Do not dishonor
my
gods!”

I almost tripped over Thyrsus on my way out of Octavianus’s
cubiculum
. Stepping back into the circle of protection I had drawn earlier, I unbound the magic by redrawing it in the opposite direction. Then I scooped up all the evidence of my work and raced away, holding it all against my waist.

I thought I had made it when a giant Gaul with long blond braids stepped out of the shadows.

“Halt!” the man cried in his Gaulish-accented Latin. “Announce yourself!”

I groaned inwardly, but Zosima had coached me carefully on what to do if I came across one of his guards.

“It is just me,” I said. Zosima told me I must make my voice sound sultry or seductive, but the best I could do was to keep it from trembling. “
Dominus
called for a girl earlier.”

The man narrowed his eyes at me. “At this time of night?”

I shrugged, allowing the linen dress to slide over my shoulder. His eyes followed it. “You know what he is like when he cannot sleep.”

“I’ve never seen you before,” he said. “And slaves don’t wear white.”

Gods
! I could not panic.
Think, think
. Again, I shrugged, allowing the material to fall farther down my shoulder. “I am a new girl. And … and my specialty is pretending to be a Vestal Virgin,” I said in a conspiratorial voice.

“What’s that on your dress?”

I looked down. Some of the blood from the woolen cloth had seeped onto the white fabric at my hip. The guard moved toward me suspiciously.

Please help me, Anubis, son of Isis
. “Oh! This is embarrassing! See, I …” I looked down again at the stain. “I began my monthly bleeding and the
Great One grew angry. He made me leave and he went to Liv …
Domina’s
house because he said I had polluted his room.”

Who knew what kind of strange superstitions his people had about menstruating women? I only prayed that they included getting far from me.

They did. The giant Gaul took a step back. “Well, do not contaminate me either! Go. Get out of here.”

I raced away, my breathing sounding to my own ears like the wheezes of a dying monster. I snuck back into the baths and stripped. I did not have time for a full immersion, so I dipped my arms up to my elbows to clean off any traces of blood. As fast as I could, I dressed in my old clothing, wrapped up the bundle — including my bloodstained white dress — and went around back to the slaves’ entrance to the underground hypocaust.

I ran down the stairs, startling the nearly naked slave stoking the flames. Smoke, red fire, unbearable heat. How did the poor man stand it? The sweat-soaked Iberian looked at me with wide, frightened eyes.

“Throw all of this into the flames,” I commanded, slipping a golden coin into his hand. “Everything. And do not unwrap it or look into it or you and all your descendants will be cursed forever, for it contains powerful magic that must be destroyed.”

The slave nodded fearfully and disappeared into his glowing red world with my bundle. I paused, listening for the sound of the clay amphora breaking and the hiss of blood on fire.

As soon as I heard it, I flew back to Livia’s house, the grass cold and slippery with predawn dew. The sky, although still dark, was turning purple. Sounds of a stirring household echoed around me — the hushed, sleepy voices of slaves, the hiss of torches as their oily tips caught fire, the shuffling of bare feet on stone floors.

I tiptoed back into the sickroom. Again, my heart lurched at the sight of my little brother’s body. I whispered into his ear exactly what I had done, hoping his
ka
would be pleased. With shaking fingers, I touched his waxy, cold cheek and returned to my pallet.

My body vibrated with tension and fear, my teeth chattering even though I clenched my jaw to still the noise. I threw the blanket over my head, curling into myself.

A rustling behind me. “Cleopatra Selene, are you all right?” Juba whispered.

I could not unclench my jaw or stop shivering.

Juba moved beside me. “What happened?” he asked.

I wanted to thank him for his help, to let him know that I had completed the magic for Calling Forth Anubis. But when I opened my mouth, no sound emerged. Instead, to my horror, I began to cry — great racking sobs that I had tried to hold in, as Alexandros still slept. I could barely breathe for the grief that swelled up in my center like a giant wave blotting out the sun. When the wave crashed, I could do nothing but let it carry me away. I remember only the warmth of Juba’s hand as he rubbed my back.

The hiss of whispers. Juba speaking softly to someone right outside my door. Where was I? I remembered with a pang so deep I almost winced: I was in the room with Ptolly’s dead body. I heard Alexandros sit up.

“What is going on?” he called.

“Check that one,” a voice said. My blood chilled. Octavianus. Stomping feet. Someone pulled the blanket off of me. Octavianus himself jerked me up by my upper arm.

“Caesar, please!” Juba said. “There is no need for roughness! I have been here all night, and so have they.”

Octavianus pushed me toward someone: the guard from the night before with his long blond braids. My heart sank.

“Well?” Octavianus demanded. “Is this the girl you saw last night?”

I kept my eyes down but could feel the man inspecting every inch of me. I prayed that with my rumpled, dirty tunic — much wider and looser than the tight white
tunica
I had worn last night — my wild,
slept-on hair covering most of my face, and my red eyes, puffy from crying, I would look nothing like the clean girl with slick wet hair that he had seen last night.

“Answer me, you idiot!” Octavianus demanded.

“The one I saw last night was prettier,” he said. “And … and taller. Her hair was darker and not as wild.”

I breathed out, grateful that the big oaf had never really looked at my face but kept his gaze at chest level.

“No. No. This is not the girl.”

Octavianus spat at my feet and growled.

Juba stepped between me and the guard. “Caesar, what has happened?” he asked. “You are alarming me.”

But before Octavianus could respond, the guard offered in his rough Latin: “Sire, the whore said she had … well … that she had started her monthly bleeding, so perhaps we should ask after all the young women who are, you know … having their regular blood….”

Octavianus stared up at the guard. Another beat passed, and the man swallowed. Octavianus turned to Juba and said in Greek, “Please tell me my guard is not this stupid, Juba. I really need to hear that right now. Even if it is a complete lie.”

Juba chuckled nervously.

Octavianus looked back at the wide-eyed giant, moving his neck as if he had a crick in it. “The story about her monthly bleeding was a ruse,” he said in Latin through clenched teeth. “That is how she tricked you into not stopping her as she left my room stained with
blood
, you stupid ox!”

He spoke to Juba again in Greek. “Take him away from me and have my captain of the guard punish him. Lashing, crucifixion, hanging, I don’t care. Just get him away from me.”

Juba hesitated, glancing toward me in concern. But he had no choice. “Come,” he said in Latin to the guard. “Caesar bids you follow me.” Not understanding his death sentence, the man happily followed Juba out of the room.

Octavianus narrowed his eyes at me. “You had something to do with it, I know it.”

“To do with what?” Alexandros asked.

“I have no idea what he is talking about,” I said to Alexandros, thankful my voice sounded thick and raw from crying myself to sleep. With Juba gone, I felt more vulnerable; even the room seemed darker, like heavy clouds had just blocked the sun.

“We … we have not left Ptolly’s side since … since he died,” my twin said. “What has happened?”

Octavianus glanced over at Ptolly’s body, then back to the pallet by the door where Juba had lain. I could see the doubt working through his thoughts. Juba said he had been there all night watching us, and the young Numidian’s honesty and integrity had never been questioned. His word was stronger than anything either one of us could have said.

Which left, I hoped he saw, only one last possibility — that the god Anubis really had sent him a message. A low rumbling of thunder vibrated overhead, as if the god himself spoke. Perhaps the sudden darkness had been clouds gathering after all. If so, I prayed for lightning. Ever since Octavianus had nearly gotten struck by lightning years ago, he had an unnatural fear of storms. I thanked the Goddess for sending one now, even though storms were common that time of the year.

Fear seemed to radiate from Octavianus’s skinny chest like sweat steaming from a horse run hard in the cold. Another far-off rumble sent the knob in his throat bobbing. “I will not waste another moment on this nonsense. I do not care what you do. Summon your dog priests if you want. But none of your barbaric practices take place anywhere near my grounds or within the city limits of Rome, do you hear me? None.”

With that, the leader of the world turned on his heels and hurried away.

With its colonnade of Doric columns and sculpted pediment, the Isis Temple outside Capua looked more like a temple to Athena. But when we crossed the threshold, it was as if we entered Egypt. Brightly colored lotus columns soared to the sky; robed priests and priestesses chanted over bowls of smoky incense, jangling sistrums in time to their song; lotus blossoms floated in golden bowls; painted images in the Egyptian style told the story of Isis’s grief and Osiris’s resurrection.

A woman dressed in Egyptian blue linen — the color of life and rebirth — emerged from the billowing smoke of incense as if by magic. “Welcome, Children of Ra,” she said in a low and musical voice, bowing. “I am Isetnofret, the Lady of Isis at Capua.”

Isetnofret
. Isis is Beautiful. My throat clenched at the sound of her name. I had longed to meet the lady for years, but I had never dreamt it would happen under these circumstances. Although she looked more Greek than Egyptian with her olive skin and long, curly hair, it was as if Amunet’s voice spoke through her. I wanted to throw myself into her arms, to never leave this place that was so reminiscent of home.

But, of course, I did nothing of the sort. After our formal introductions — in which she invoked Isis and bid us cleave to the Goddess of Love and Hope during our grief — she directed us to follow her into the temple’s inner sanctuary. Juba, who had accompanied us on the journey, carried Ptolly’s shrouded body behind us.

After ritually cleansing our hands with Nile water poured from a golden
hydria
, she brought us to the entrance of the
ibw
— the Place of Purification — where the mummification of Ptolly’s body would begin, a process that would take more than two months. The Head Priest of Isis stepped forward and bowed, his shaved and oiled head gleaming in the torch-lit passageway, eyes rimmed in kohl. He wore robes of black, the color of death. Two Priests of Anubis, bare-chested and in giant jackal masks, flanked him. An acolyte took Ptolly’s shrouded body from Juba and placed it on the large table inside the chamber.

The masked Priests of Anubis stepped in front of us and crossed their arms in a symbolic gesture to remind us that we were still of the
living. We could not follow our brother into the sacred chamber. The fierceness of their masks reminded me of Ptolly’s reaction when he saw them during the ceremony for Mother — how he had pressed against me in terror.

The priestess bid us away. I felt Alexandros move, but I could not. Panic surged up my middle. Ptolly looked so tiny and lost on the large metal table. The Anubis masks
scared
him! Didn’t they know that? Who would comfort him? I could not leave him there alone with strangers.

Isetnofret put her arm around me, but still I did not move. “Come,” she whispered, and I caught the sweet, spicy scents of lotus oil and myrrh, the smells of Egypt. “You have saved a prince of Egypt by giving his
ka
a place to dwell for all eternity,” she murmured.

“But I promised him I’d never leave,” I whispered.

“And you have kept your promise. I have heard from our followers in Caesar’s own compound how you battled him to ensure your brother’s
ka
survives.”

Was that what it was — a battle? She took me by both shoulders and turned me to her, so that my back was to Ptolly and the masked priests. “Do you see how the Power of Isis worked through you? You opposed Caesar and
won
. The Goddess has not abandoned you. She will bring
ma’at
to Egypt and return you to the throne as the gods have destined.

“But you must be patient,” she added. “The Goddess’s timetable is not ours.”

I allowed her to lead me away. And through the grief and confusion that lingered through the months that followed, one phrase echoed in my mind as if the priestess had yelled it into a bottomless well:
You opposed Caesar and won
.

… opposed Caesar …

… and won
.