Cleopatra's Moon (3 page)

Tata took the ring off his finger and held it out to me, as if for examination. The very heft of the hieroglyphic-covered band suggested it had special power. I had never before seen pearls used to depict the center of the eye like that.

“The pearl is dull,” I murmured into the tense silence. I knew that Romans considered pearls the most precious of all gemstones.

“That is no pearl.” Tata laughed. “It’s bone. Human bone from one of Egypt’s ancient enemies. From even before Cheops built his Great Pyramid.”

A chill tingled up my spine. A human bone meant powerful magic.

“Yes, it’s very sacred, according to your mother’s strange-smelling priests,” Tata continued. “Lots of protection.”

“Protection from what?” I asked, confused by Tata’s irreverent tone.

“Death at the hands of an evil enemy,” Tata said, lounging back against the curved arm of the couch and yawning. He closed his eyes. “But I have no enemies that powerful.”

“But … do you have an
evil
enemy, Tata?” Did my brothers? Was I in danger too? “Who is it?”

Tata opened one eye to peer at me.

“That-little-verpa-Octavianus,” he said with an edge. “Your mother seems to fear him more than she has faith in me.”

“Marcus …,” Mother warned in a low voice.

Tata sat up quickly, as if he had received a jolt of energy. He reached for his cup and drained it. “But you, my little one, like my queen, are protected by different magic.”

“Marcus …,” Mother repeated, crossing her arms.

“You probably received an emerald amulet. Yes, I am right, I can tell by your face. See, the emerald enhances Venus’s gifts. Oh, excuse me, little Greekling — Aphrodite’s gifts. Your feminine charms. That’s your mother’s special magic. And so she shares it with you.”

I did not understand what Tata said or meant, but I felt the tension vibrating between them like heat waves in front of the Great Sphinx. The silence continued. I found myself sincerely wishing that I had never noticed the Horus amulets.

“Little Moon,” Mother finally said, “call for Katep. You must return to your rooms.”

I paused, knowing that Katep was not waiting for me outside. And since she had seemed so upset that Tata had dismissed our guards, I did not want to remind her of this.

“Rufus!” Father suddenly bellowed, and I jumped. “Escort the Princess back to her rooms. And bring more wine on your way back!”

I followed the soldier into the darkened hall, the sound of his hobnailed boots echoing in the tense silence behind me.

By the next morning, Katep and all of Mother’s guards were back at their regular posts.

The dissolution of our world began in earnest with these three words: “I divorce you.”

The king of Egypt himself, my brother Caesarion, came to tell us the news. He found us on the grounds connecting the palace and the Great Library, setting up for a game of
trigon
. A girl named Euginia — the daughter of Mother’s finance minister — had already taken her position as one of the
pilecripi
, our ball chasers and scorekeepers. Euginia was not bad at the game, and she and I often tossed the
trigon
ball to each other when the boys went off by themselves. I had hoped to convince Alexandros that she should be our third player.

But, as always, Alexandros wanted Iotape. I squinted as I stared at her across the playing area. Strong ocean breezes lifted and then dropped her silken coverings so that she looked like an exotic bird flapping her wings. How could she possibly play draped in so much fabric? I tossed and caught the painted leather ball in my palm as Alexandros
again
went over the rules with his sweet but, I feared, dull-witted “beloved.”

“
Solvete
,” Caesarion called to us as he approached. A retinue of advisers and guards flanked the young king. “I will have a word with you both.” Caesarion often spoke to us in Latin instead of the court’s usual Greek. He had always done so to honor his tata and because, he claimed, the world was Roman now, and the sooner we mastered the finer points of its language, the better.

Caesarion, at almost fifteen, had his father’s wiry frame and keen, intelligent eyes. I always thought he looked like a younger version of the statue Mother had erected of her first husband in the Caesarium. Only with more hair.

“Play with us first, brother!” I called.

Caesarion paused. “I believe I will. I cannot remember the last time I played,” he said, stepping onto Alexandros’s point in the triangle.

“Where am I supposed to play, then?” Alexandros called.

“Tell Iotape to step back,” he said. “You will take her position.”

Iotape, who was learning Greek and not Latin, did not move at the command from the king of Egypt. Alexandros spoke softly to her in their strange little mix of Persian and Greek. She slid away, blushing.

I grinned at Caesarion and threw the ball as hard as I could. He caught it with his left hand, his painted eyebrows rising at the sting in his palm. He quickly moved the ball to his right hand.

“Well, little sister,” he said. “I see now how this is going to go.”

He never broke eye contact with me but hurled the ball to Alexandros. “Ha!” my twin muttered, shooting it to me in almost the same movement. “You’re going to have to do better than that!”

We kept the ball spinning in a triangle, trying to outwit one another with feints and tricks with our eyes, where one looked to one person but threw it to the other. I had long ago learned the secret to not fall for such tricks: I did not watch my brothers’ eyes or even their feet. The only thing that existed was the spinning ball.

I hurled the ball to Caesarion harder than Achilles throwing his spear, and the sphere bounced off his wrist. The ball hit the ground with a heavy thump.

“My point!” I whooped, dancing. “I have beaten the king of Egypt!”

“One point does not an entire game make, sister,” Caesarion called.

I pranced and skipped toward him. “You lost, I won! I’m a better
trigon
player!”

To my surprise, Caesarion lowered his head and roared, “There is no teasing the king. You will pay!” My heart stopped in fear until I saw his face split into a grin as he sprinted toward me.

I yelped and took off across the green. But Caesarion caught me quickly. “That is it!” he said as he trapped me in his arms. “Throw her to the snakes!”

I yelled, “No! No!” in mock horror as he spun me. “I surrender! I surrender!” I cried at last. “Let me go.”

“Ha! I do not trust you.”

“Brother, you insult me.”

“There is no insulting She Whose Bite Is Sharper than a Serpent’s.”

“I promise,” I said. “You can trust me.”

Caesarion made a snorting noise — quite un-kinglike, I thought — and released me. I stepped back with my hands up. “See?”

“Come, I must speak with you and Alexandros,” he said, cocking his head toward my twin and Iotape and moving toward them.

“Only if you give me a ride!” I said, launching myself onto his back with a harpy cackle.

“
Eheu!”
he grunted when I landed on him, but he did not throw me off. I slid down his back when we reached Alexandros and Iotape. “You are getting too big for me to give you a ride,” Caesarion complained.

“What was the news you wanted to share with us, brother?” Alexandros asked.

Caesarion’s face — which moments ago had been open and light — suddenly closed. “We received word that your father’s divorce from his Roman wife is now official.”

Alexandros and I looked at each other and then back at Caesarion. We knew Tata had a Roman wife — whom he’d married for political reasons — and that he also hadn’t seen her in years. She was meaningless! “That is it? That was what brought you out here?” I asked.

Caesarion shook his head. “Walk with me,” he said, heading toward the colonnade of painted lotus columns leading to the Great Library. He signaled for his entourage to stay back as they shooed Euginia and the other children away.

“Isn’t Tata’s divorce a mere formality at this point?” Alexandros asked. “After all, Tata and Mother have been together many years.”

“I’m afraid it is a little more complicated than that,” Caesarion said. “You know that Tata married Octavia to cement a peace treaty with her brother Octavianus, yes?”

We nodded.

“Well, by casting her away, he casts away the treaty too.”

My stomach clenched. A broken peace treaty was never a good thing.

“But divorce is common in Rome, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yes,” Caesarion said. “But in this case, it has deep ramifications. Octavianus is using it as an excuse to declare war.”

“But why would Octavianus declare war on Tata for that?” I cried.

“He has not declared war on your father,” the young king of Egypt continued, scowling. “He has declared war on
Mother
. On Egypt. On us. Do you understand?”

I froze, my mouth hanging open. Alexandros’s head whipped toward him. “But Egypt is a loyal Friend and Ally to Rome,” he cried. “How can Rome declare war on Egypt? We supply their grain, we fund their campaigns in the East….”

“And we do not even have a standing army of any strength,” I added. “This is outrageous! They cannot declare war on an ally that has no way to protect itself!”

“Octavianus has, in truth, started a civil war with your father — a war between two Romans for sole control of the Roman empire,” explained Caesarion. “But he is making it look like it’s all Mother’s fault, making
us
— making her — the enemy.”

“But that makes no sense …,” I cried.

“Oh, no. It’s quite brilliant, really. Octavianus will have to tax his people to the breaking point to fund the war. Romans would not allow it — indeed, they would throw him from the Tarpeian Rock if he told them it was in the service of fighting their beloved Marcus Antonius. But Romans would not object to taxing themselves into poverty if it meant saving themselves and their favorite general from the clutches of the ‘evil’ queen of Egypt.”

I made an outraged noise, but Caesarion continued. “He is twisting the minds of the Romans at the same time that he dismisses me as the true son of Caesar. Octavianus claims Mother has bewitched your father. That she has him under such a spell, he can’t be held responsible
for any of his actions or decisions. That she is using your father to take over in Rome.”

“And Romans believe these
Iies
against a loyal client kingdom?” I cried.

“It is hard for me to understand how they do not see right through him. But we must take the declaration seriously and prepare accordingly.”

Dumbfounded, I said nothing more. We stopped under the striped canopy of the royal entrance to the Library. Attendants came running, bowing first to Caesarion, then to us. One bore a golden vessel with warm lotus-perfumed water to rinse our hands and feet; another took our cloaks and anything else we did not wish to carry.

As we entered the light-filled atrium, white-robed, white-sandaled scholars bustled by, bowing absentmindedly in our direction. The march of all our attendants echoed loudly on the worn marble floors.

“Where are we going, brother?” I asked, looking up into Caesarion’s serious face.

“
I
am going into the military history section of the Library,” he said, stopping in front of the statue of Alexander the Great that graced its entrance. “
You
are going back to your lessons.”

“No, I want to stay with you,” I said. “I will be quiet, I promise.”

Caesarion shook his head. “War is not a game for children,” he said. “You must allow the adults to handle it without distractions.”

Adults
? He had not even had his manhood ceremony yet! I stared openmouthed at my brother. But before I could respond, he added, “Go play, Little Moon. We shall keep Egypt safe for you.” And turned away.

Our litter slowed as we moved through the Royal Palace’s main gates and into the busy streets of Alexandria. Crowds parted before us, but to my surprise, we did not hear the chorus of benedictions and blessings that normally rained down upon us. All of Alexandria, it seemed, had grown tense over Octavianus’s absurd declaration of war. I noticed that we had a larger guard than usual, all with drawn swords as they marched in front of, beside, and behind our litter.

Despite the tension that seemed to permeate the city, I was excited. I always loved it when we went out among our people. That day, we were headed toward the Jewish Quarter with our tutor, Euphronius.

“You must understand the lives and hearts of
all
your people,” he had lectured before we set off. “And so, today we meet with a rabbi who will explain the tenets of the Hebrew religion.”

We had never actually been to this part of Alexandria, and I found the transition into the neighborhood fascinating. In general, even the poorest Alexandrians loved the bright colors of Egypt — saffron, turquoise, red, and blue. But when we entered the Jewish Quarter we saw only tunics and cloaks of dull browns and grays. Also, the Jews did not bow to us, throw flowers, or beg for benedictions like most of our people. Instead, they studiously ignored us. I did not think much about it until Iotape pointed it out.

“They do not honor you,” she said in her singsong, accented Greek. “Why is that?”

“The religion of the Hebrews,” Euphronius explained, “prohibits them from worshipping idols, which they extend to mean the worship of kings.”

I sat up in surprise. “Do you mean to say, they do not acknowledge Mother as their queen and Caesarion as their king?”

“They claim their god forbids it,” Euphronius said. “The Jews of Alexandria are a learned bunch, but their faith is a curious one, which involves believing in only a single male god who is often quite jealous and angry.”

“But why does Mother allow it?” I asked. “I don’t care what they believe. They should bow to her.”

“I did not say that they do not honor the queen. They do — in their own way. And so you must learn from the queen’s wisdom. She does not force them to act against their faith, thus earning their devotion and allegiance….”

“Not to mention their taxes,” quipped Alexandros.

“Yes, which is what makes her such a brilliant administrator,” Euphronius added. “The queen is a true philosopher-king in the spirit with which Aristotle tried to imbue your ancestor Alexander the Great.”

We arrived at a small brick building that Euphronius called their temple, though I would not have thought it so. In our Temple of Isis we had great brass doors that opened dramatically as if by the unseen hands of the Goddess, thanks to fire-driven machines created by the scientists at our
Museion
. Inside, giant lotus columns, thirty cubits high, soared into the sky. Morning light pouring in from the roof’s sun grate made the gold-leaf hieroglyphs on the walls shimmer with an otherworldly beauty. Immense painted statues of the gods reminded us of their power, majesty, and mystery. In contrast, the Hebrew temple, except for the marble columns in the entranceway, felt as if we had entered someone’s humble home. No paintings or statues of gods or goddesses adorned the walls; no niches were set off for private communion. Only a ceremonial flame by the altar hinted that it was a house of worship.

A kindly-looking old man with a long, uncurled gray beard greeted us. “Welcome, welcome!” he said, his eyes crinkling with warmth. He led us into a side room away from where a group of men prayed with fervor, their eyes closed, lips moving, and bodies rocking ever so slightly back and forth.

“I am Rabbi Yoseph ben Zakkai,” he said. “I met my good friend Euphronius at the Library when he and I debated the nature of the divine many years ago.”

Learning that our teacher had a life outside of tutoring us always gave me a jolt. That Euphronius had
friends
was even more shocking.

“Who won the debate?” Alexandros asked.

“He did!” both men said, laughing as they pointed to each other.

As we settled in the rabbi’s
tablinum
, the rabbi began, “My friend tells me his young charges need to learn a bit more about the world.”

I bristled at the implication we were insulated, spoiled, overprotected little brats.

The rabbi then explained the basics of his faith. “There is only one God who created and rules the world,” he said. “He is all knowing, all powerful, and in all places at all times. He is also just and merciful.”

“Who is his consort-wife?” I asked, thinking of Isis and her husband, Osiris. “What is she like?”

“Our God has no wife. There is no goddess.
Hashem
created the world and is responsible for its existence. We are here to obey His commandments and laws.”

I blinked. No goddess? How could that be? “But the bearing of life is the province of women,” I said. “What does a male god know of these things?”

“In my faith, the goddesses Anahit and Astghik are the bringers of life and love,” agreed Iotape. “Why would your male god not
want
a consort?” She looked at me and smiled as if for approval.

“Our God supersedes all. There is only one God,” the rabbi repeated. “We owe everything to Him, he who has made us His chosen people and revealed His commandments to us.”

The rabbi launched into the Hebrew story about their first man and woman. His god placed them in a Garden of Happiness and commanded them not to eat the fruit of a magic tree. But a serpent tempted them and both ate of the forbidden fruit. Their god was very angry and the man blamed the woman.

“But if both the man and the woman ate of the fruit, why does the woman get all the blame?” I interrupted, sitting forward on the wooden bench. I did not look at Euphronius, guessing he was glaring at me.

“Because she is weaker and tempted the man,” he said, seemingly surprised at the question. “Therefore, she is more evil.”

“But—” Euphronius cleared his throat. I ignored him. “But wasn’t she just curious? Isn’t curiosity a useful human trait? Why would your god give humans curiosity and then tell them not to use it?”

“Ah, but God was not testing their curiosity or intelligence. He was testing their
obedience
,” the rabbi explained. He took a breath to continue, but I jumped in.

“But
why
would a god do this? And why would he test them without telling them he was testing them? Perhaps they might not have eaten from it if they understood what would happen if they disobeyed? And … and if he was all knowing, why did he not
know
that his creations would succumb to the temptation of curiosity? After all, didn’t he create them that way?”

“Princess,” Euphronius interrupted. “I remind you, you are a guest in this holy man’s temple. Please do not …”

But the old man smiled at me and waved Euphronius off. “No, no, this is excellent. Only through dialogue will we come to understand each other, yes?”

I smiled back at him. Then the rabbi explained a concept I had not heard of before — one that he called “free will.”

“God created man with the impulse to do good and the impulse to do evil. Free will is the ability to choose to act on either of these impulses. God commands us to follow the Torah and to choose goodness over sin.”

“But how is it free will if mankind is
commanded
to choose a certain way?” I asked. “That’s like — that is like if I held two hands out for you to choose. In one, I held a pearl, in the other an emerald. If I
commanded
you to choose the pearl, then you are not freely choosing it, yes?”

The rabbi shook his head. “It is the discernment — the knowledge of good and evil — that is at the heart of free will.” He unwound an
ancient-looking scroll and scanned it, putting one finger up for us to wait. “Ah, yes. Here it is. Genesis. This is what happened after Adam and Eve disobeyed God.” He read aloud first in Hebrew and then translated it into Greek for us: “‘Behold, Adam has become as one of us, knowing good and evil.’“

“But wait,” I interrupted. “Your holy book says your first man became ‘as one of
us.’
I thought you said there was only one god. Why does it say ‘us’?”

“A figure of speech,” the rabbi said with a quick flick of the wrist. “What is important is the idea that God will bless us if we follow Him, but if our hearts turn astray, we will be destroyed. Each man must choose every day.”

“That is not so different than the Weighing of the Heart test Osiris says we must pass,” Alexandros pointed out. “If we live by
ma’at
, then we will not be devoured by the evil monster, Amut.”

The rabbi paused. “This is different. There are no beast gods, there is only One God.”

“And what does our Greek heritage say?” Euphronius asked us, as if he wanted to change the subject.

“That we cannot outrun our fates,” I answered. “
Hubris
, the great crime against the gods, was thinking that we could. And hubris took down even the best of men, like Achilles and Oedipus.”

My tutor nodded. A slave entered and poured watered wine into clay cups for us. “There are many slaves who live good lives,” I said to the rabbi. “But most did not
choose
to be slaves. And they cannot choose
not
to be slaves. Do they not have free will, then? Doesn’t this prove that their fates are already decided? Just like our own — that I will rule Egypt and Alexandros will rule Parthia and that the slave will always be a slave?”

“No, see.” The rabbi smiled. “Even a slave can choose to obey God. Our only job is to love God and obey His commandments, no matter what the circumstances.”

I was more confused than ever. How was it free will if your only job was to obey?

“It is getting late, children, we must return,” Euphronius said. So the rabbi finished by explaining that a new age awaited humanity — that the Jews waited for a man they called
Mashiach
— a savior of the people, a man of God who would end all fighting and unite humanity as one.

“Can the
Mashiach
be a woman?” I asked.

Alexandros sniggered. Iotape elbowed him.

“Well, no,” answered the rabbi.

“Why not?”

“Because … well, because the prophets say the
Mashiach
will be a man.”

“But if your god truly wanted to test his people’s faith and obedience, then he could very well send a woman, couldn’t he?” As always, I thought only of Mother. If Mother could be “queen of kings,” then why could not another great woman be their
Mashiach
?

“Theoretically, yes …”

“Princess,” Euphronius interrupted with a tired edge in his voice. “We do not want to exhaust our most generous host. Let us save those questions for another time.”

“But the Jews aren’t the only ones saying that a great new age is coming,” Alexandros jumped in. “Remember, Virgil says that a
boy
will usher in a golden age and rule a world ‘blessed’ with peace.”

For our Latin studies, we had read the Roman poet Virgil’s fourth Eclogue, and Alexandros had great fun claiming
he
was this “Golden Child” the poem referred to. After all, wasn’t he named after the sun?

I looked at Iotape, and she had crossed her arms in irritation with my brother too.
That
made me warm to her. But before I could respond, Alexandros said, “I repeat, sister, the poem says ‘boy’ not girl.’“

I reached over to pinch the soft underside of his upper arm. “You arrogant little —”

“Children!” Euphronius cried. “I do believe it is time to bid our honored host farewell.”

Alexandros’s baiting and my experience at the Jewish temple opened my eyes to the fact that most men thought women inferior. After all, I had grown up under the shadow of the most powerful woman in the world. I saw great men prostrate themselves at her feet. I worshipped at the altar of the greatest Goddess of All, Isis.

But I began paying more attention, and I grew confused by what I saw. Mother had no women in her court of advisers. Few petitioners were women. Occasionally, we saw a female scholar at the Great Library, but not often. And certainly, no women ambassadors visited the queen. What did it mean? And how had I not noticed it before?

I asked Mother about it some days later when I visited her in the deep-dark. Mother read her correspondence while her servant Iras fought to stay awake and I paced the room, restless. I heard a scratching at the door to Mother’s inner chamber and opened it. Mother’s little sleek cat, Hekate, shot out. I looked in and spied Tata, unclothed and sprawled on his stomach on Mother’s sleeping couch. He snored and I jumped.

“Close the door,” Mother said in a hushed tone.

I obeyed. “Why is Tata sleeping in there?” I asked.

“He’s not just sleeping, he’s sleeping it
off
,” muttered Iras.

Mother’s head snapped toward her in surprise. Iras colored. “I am sorry, my lady, I meant no disrespect….”

“Leave us,” Mother said in a voice so cold, my flesh prickled.

Mother returned to her reading after Iras left, but I could tell by her furious scowl that her mood had shifted. After a minute, she threw the scroll on her desk. “Gods, child, stop that infernal pacing,” she said. “What is troubling you?”

“Noth-nothing.”

Mother rubbed the spot between her brows, then looked up at me. Her green-gold eyes glimmered in the flickering light of the hanging bronze lamp. “Euphronius reports you engaged in a debate with a holy man of the Jewish Quarter.”

My stomach clenched. I’d had no idea that Euphronius reported our behavior to Mother. “I am sorry,” I sputtered. “It is just that … I only had some questions….”

Mother waved her hand to stop me. “No. Never apologize for asking intelligent questions. Only you must learn how to do so without angering those whom you engage.”

“But I did not anger the rabbi, I swear!”

“Well, you angered your tutor.” Mother shifted her gaze to Hekate, who washed her paws with great delicacy. She added with a murmur, “I was very much like you when I was young.”