Egypt's Sister: A Novel of Cleopatra

by Angela Hunt

  He tried the word out on his tongue. “I asked Octavian to send you to me because I was hoping for an evening’s entertainment . . . mostly because you are beautiful and I wanted to look at you. If we are not going to couple, will you at least talk?”

  I stared at him, astounded. “You want me to talk?”

  “I know you can. You proved it this evening.”

  My cheeks burned at the memory. “That was a mistake. But Dominus was speaking about a friend.”

  Agrippa’s smile widened into a grin. “Already I can tell your story is not at all like the stories of other slaves. You were not brought to Rome as spoils of war, were you?”

  I shook my head.

  “And you were not enslaved as a child, because you speak like an educated woman. You are refined, which is highly unusual for a slave so lovely. Most beautiful slaves are used up by the time they reach your age.”

  I swallowed hard. “I would not have you think I am naïve. I am not.”

  “I believe you. So tell me your story. I would very much like to hear it.”

  I tilted my head to study him better. His face was broad, unlike Octavian’s narrow visage, and his eyes were a mingling of blue and green, so his ancestors might have hailed from Gaul or some other northern land. His hair was the color of light-brown sand and clipped short, like most soldiers’. His smile was even, with good teeth. He was not a big man, like some brutish warriors, but tall enough that I looked up to catch his gaze, and slender enough that I could slip my arms around him. Intelligence snapped in his eyes, and already I had seen that he was a man who could put his desires aside in pursuit of something more valuable. Finally, he was not so aware of the social gulf between us that he would refuse to have an actual conversation with a slave.

  “You are judging me,” he said. “Do I meet with your approval?”

  My face heated with embarrassment. “It is not my place to judge you. Besides, I thought you wanted to hear my story.”

  “I beg your pardon. Please.” He tipped his head in my direction. “Tell me everything.”

  I perched on the edge of the chair, careful not to sit on his intricately folded toga. “I was born—”

  “Not like that,” he interrupted. “Sit on the couch where you can relax. Talk to me as anyone would.”

  I lifted a brow, then slowly moved to the couch and sat at the end, near his feet. Then I began sharing the history of my life. One moment slid seamlessly into the next, one episode followed another, until the candles guttered and my voice had grown hoarse.

  I stopped talking and listened for noises in the night. A Shabbat stillness reigned in the house, with only the distant sound of Maecenas’s snoring to disturb it.

  “I am so sorry.” I slid off the couch and moved to the door, my head bowed. “You wanted entertainment and all I have done is bore you.”

  “You have not.” Agrippa sat up, his eyes seeking mine. “And I will not send you away at this hour, when anything could happen on your way to the basement. You must stay with me tonight.”

  “But—”

  “Wait.” He stood, picked up his toga, and shook out the folds. He then wrapped me in the rectangle, cocooning me in its soft warmth. “There. Be warm. Be safe.”

  Stretching out on the couch, he slid to the far edge of the cushion and patted the empty space beside him. “I am a sound sleeper, and I am tired. On my honor, I will not disturb your rest.”

  As if to prove his point, he lowered his head to his outstretched arm and closed his eyes. I wavered, studying his face, which seemed durable and boyish in the lamplight. I was on the verge of fleeing to the slaves’ quarters when I remembered Thanatos, who had been lurking in the kitchen earlier. Agrippa was right—at this hour, I would not want to run into anyone, not even one of my fellow slaves.

  I lay down beside him, wrapped up like Urbi in Caesar’s carpet. I was drifting on a tide of exhaustion when I felt his hand on my waist. I stiffened as my eyes flew open, but he did not move again. After a moment, his breathing deepened and the candle sputtered out, thrusting us into darkness.

  I closed my eyes and relaxed, and after a while I felt nothing but his arm around me, keeping me safe.

  Life settled into a routine. Octavian, my master, remained in his mother’s house, and I regularly left that house to deliver the babies of Roman wives. Our master was rarely at home, however—he, Lepidus, and Mark Antony kept themselves busy running the Roman republic, so Amphion ran the household. He never complained about my midwifery, though, because now two midwives brought in a steady income.

  Every week or two I would stop by the amanuensis’s desk. “How much more?” I would ask. “How much do I need to buy my freedom?”

  Amphion would sigh in exasperation, flip through a few pages of his ledger, and look up at me. “Years,” he’d say, one corner of his mouth drooping. “So get to work.”

  Even with the excitement that accompanied every birth, life might have become predictable if not for Agrippa, who had become Octavian’s chief friend and second in command. What Octavian envisioned, Agrippa carried out, and even from my lowly position I saw what a talented and capable man Agrippa was. If not for his humble and obscure origins, he might have been Rome’s first citizen, but I found his devotion to Octavian admirable. The relationship between Agrippa and Octavian reminded me of Urbi and myself before Urbi turned into a queen who would stop at nothing to advance her own ambitions.

  A friendship of sorts had formed between me and Agrippa the night he summoned me to his room, though both of us knew it could never be publicly declared. Romans barely acknowledged household slaves, and only held meaningful conversations with trusted handmaids or personal servants. Octavian rarely spoke directly to me, and neither did Agrippa while in Octavian’s presence.

  But whenever he visited the house and saw me, a simple quirk of his brow let me know he had noticed me; a twitch of an uplifted finger meant he wanted to speak to me. I would go to the garden and sit in a sheltered niche, or I would linger in the shadows of the library, pretending to peruse the family’s scrolls or dust the death masks of their noble ancestors.

  Did I think of Yosef in those days? Yes, at first. But as the months passed, I found it increasingly easy to believe that he had forgotten me and married another. I wished him every happiness HaShem could provide, even as I yearned for another meaningful friendship.

  One afternoon I caught a flicker of Agrippa’s signal and went to the library, where he joined me after a few moments. He stood so close I could smell incense on his clothing, and my heart thudded when he smiled down on me.

  “I have some news that might interest you,” he said.

  I could not imagine what he meant. “News?”

  “Of Cleopatra. As you might know, her sister Arsinoe has been held at the Temple of Artemis in Ephesus, upon the orders of Julius Caesar.”

  “I did not know.” I closed my eyes and tried to remember the last time I’d heard Arsinoe’s name. It had been during the Alexandrine War, when she had proclaimed herself queen in Cleopatra’s absence. “It has been years since I’ve thought of her.”

  “Caesar brought her to Rome, where she rode as a prisoner in his triumph.” Agrippa’s face darkened. “The people of Rome did not enjoy the sight of a young girl in chains. Caesar’s mistake. Too many of the people felt sorry for her.”

  I shook my head. “They should have withheld their pity. Arsinoe was conniving and ambitious.”

  “All the same, she and the priest of that temple have been kept in Ephesus until now. Mark Antony has just ordered that she be removed from the temple and executed on the steps.”

  My hand flew to my throat. “Is this—?”

  “We know it is Cleopatra’s doing. Arsinoe has been plotting against her sister all these years, even having the high priest proclaim her queen. Cleopatra begged Antony to release the priest, and he did. But now Cleopatra has no more siblings. She rules with her son, Caesarion, as her co-regent, and Antony as her lover.”<
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  I sank to a chair, stunned but not surprised.

  “We hear,” Agrippa went on, “that Cleopatra spoils Antony, allowing him to indulge himself in sports and the diversions of a man of leisure. They have made a pact—they call themselves the Inimitable Livers.”

  I made a face. “Livers?”

  “Apparently they intend to live with—how was it termed?—‘an extravagance of expenditure beyond measure or belief.’”

  I drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. Extravagance was a Ptolemy trait, and Urbi reveled in her heritage. But what must the staid Romans think of such a free-spending queen?

  “We hear that she plays dice with him, drinks with him, hunts with him,” Agrippa went on. “They say he goes out among the populace, and she accompanies him, disguised as a serving maiden.”

  I nodded, remembering how Urbi and I had done the same thing on the Canopic Way.

  “Can these reports be true?” Agrippa asked. “They sound so . . . unbelievable.”

  “If she is not allowing him to leave her side, she doesn’t trust him,” I said. “As to whether or not they’re believable . . . yes, Cleopatra would do those things. She would do anything to please the man who can help her save Egypt.”

  A line appeared between Agrippa’s brows. “Rome is not at war with Egypt.”

  “But . . .” I hesitated, torn between Urbi’s interests and my own. If I said too much, would I be giving the Romans an advantage? On the other hand, did Urbi deserve to have her secrets protected? “Cleopatra is aware that Rome could remove her at any time,” I finally said. “So she will love Mark Antony; she will please and humor him. She would do anything for him . . . because of Egypt.”

  Agrippa leaned back. “So Antony might stay in Egypt for the foreseeable future.”

  “If Cleopatra has her way, she will keep him as long as possible.”

  Agrippa stared thoughtfully at the wall of death masks, then turned. “Is she really so beautiful?”

  “She is really so . . . fascinating.”

  My heart twisted at the thought of my friend. I did not allow myself to think of her often, but Agrippa had asked, and my mind had conjured her up, as real and vital as she had always been.

  “I will see her again,” I whispered, daring to speak only because I had learned to trust Agrippa. “HaShem gave me that promise.”

  Agrippa caught my shoulders, pressed a kiss to my forehead, and released me. “Maybe you will,” he said, retreating. “One never knows what will happen tomorrow.”

  I stepped onto the street, then nodded at the men who had brought torches to escort me safely to Palatine Hill. I had just delivered my second set of twins, and though the labor was long, once the first baby arrived, the second followed soon after. The mother was overjoyed by the double blessing, and the father’s disappointment over having a girl had been eased by the arrival of a son moments later.

  Walking between my two escorts, I gripped my basket of supplies and stepped carefully over the paving stones, not wanting to turn an ankle in the darkness. A cloudless sky had painted the buildings to my right and left with a thin wash of moonlight, accented by the occasional spill of lamplight from the edges of a shuttered window. I did not enjoy walking the streets of Rome at night—trouble always seemed to stir in darkness, and amid the uneven staircases, shadowed doorways, and shuttered shops, men tended to forget their better natures. Even at this late hour, the city vibrated with noise—an angry voice, a screaming woman, the wail of frightened children. Rats skulked in the shadows, and stray dogs splashed through the sewers in search of food. And always, always, the scent of sewage, rotting fruit, and the occasional corpse dumped into the street.

  I looked up in gratitude when we reached the house of Gaius Octavian Caesar.

  “I believe this is your master’s house?” one of my escorts asked.

  “Yes. Tomorrow I’ll send a message as to where the birthing chair should be delivered.” I moved toward the door. “Bona noctem.”

  The doorman had been sleeping beneath the BEWARE OF DOG mosaic, but he woke at the sound of the door closing. He gazed at me, eyes wide, then realized who I was. “Salve,” he said, greeting me. He leaned back against the wall and nodded, probably eager to get back to sleep.

  But I needed to ask a question. “Has Sabina returned?”

  We had both departed that morning, heading for two separate homes. Her prospective mother was pregnant with her fourth child, so she wasn’t expecting a protracted delivery.

  The doorman’s brow furrowed as he shook his head.

  “Are you sure? I would have thought—”

  “No,” the man interrupted. “Now be off with you.”

  I stepped back and eyed him, wondering if he’d made a mistake. I had been gone all day and half the night, so something must have gone wrong with Sabina. If she were struggling, I might be able to help her.

  “What was the address?” I asked the doorman, who had already lowered his eyelids. “Where did Sabina go?”

  The doorman’s dark eyes bored into mine. “Can you not see I am trying to sleep?”

  “I thought it was your duty to guard the door.”

  “For the dominus, not for the likes of you!”

  My mood veered sharply to anger. “Would you like me to tell Dominus that you refused to help one of the midwives? Our women give him a great deal of money for our services. I would hate for him to hear that you refused to cooperate when we needed your help.”

  His face paled, all but a pair of deep splotches over his cheekbones, as though someone had slapped him twice. “The home of Harpocrates the blacksmith, on Aventine Hill.” He spat the words.

  I hesitated. The area surrounding Aventine Hill was rough and poor. The towering insulae held dozens of families, and Sabina could be working in any one of the many apartments.

  “Have you no clearer direction?” I asked. “Or tell me who escorted Sabina to the Aventine—perhaps he will take me there, as well.”

  The doorman’s face twisted in a leering smile. “Duran took her. If she’s not back, maybe we should ask him where she is.”

  “Where is Duran? In the men’s quarters?”

  “I do not know. And I wouldn’t advise you going down there at this hour.”

  The doorman had a point. I stepped back and bit my lip, weighing the risks of the streets versus the risk of the men in the basement. Thanatos might be in there, and the man was still watching me, taking every opportunity to make rude remarks or crude gestures. . . .

  Perhaps I could walk a short distance. I might encounter Sabina on the street, and we could keep each other company on the walk home.

  “I am going to find her.” I leaned closer to hiss in the doorman’s face. “And I will be back.”

  Years of traversing Alexandria with only Nuru by my side had taught me to walk quickly, avoid other people, and behave as though I knew exactly where I was going. Since I had no one to accompany me, I grabbed a blanket from my bag and draped it over my head like a hood, allowing the rest of the fabric to hang over my shoulders and down my back. My simple tunic, the uniform of a slave, might actually draw less attention than if I’d been dressed like a Roman matron, with tunic and stola.

  I strode quickly down Palatine Hill and past the Circus Maximus, then along the street that led to the Aventine. I looked out from beneath my hood, searching for any sign of a slave between escorts, but all I saw were groups of men, occasional clutches of legionaries in search of a tavern, and a couple of scrawny children. A line of white-robed priestesses walked the street, murmuring some incantation, but they made me uneasy, so I hurried past them.

  I stood at the base of the Aventine and looked at the insulae, several of them rising four and five stories high. Lights glowed through the shutters, and the sounds of humankind echoed in the darkness. Tatters of clouds hung like rags above the rooftops of the buildings, and stiff clothing swung on laundry lines stretched from window to window.

  I lifted my chin and
girded myself with courage. If I were ever going to find the home of Harpocrates the blacksmith, I’d have to ask someone for direction. Which meant I’d have to approach someone, and I had not seen anyone who looked even slightly approachable.

  I had started climbing the hill when I realized I should look for signs of a forge. A blacksmith used a fire and tools and usually had a bucket for cooling hot metal. Most of the insulae had businesses or shops on the first floor, so if I found a building with a forge, I would narrow my choices considerably.

  I kept moving. I walked past a butcher shop, a brothel, a shop that sold idols. A weaver, a sculptor—and there, a forge. Custom-designed swords and blades, the sign proclaimed in Latin. Tools for your country estate.

  I stepped back and looked up. No lights shone on the fourth floor; only a solitary light gleamed on the third. But the second floor, just up the wooden staircase, blazed with light.

  I gripped the stair railing and climbed the first six steps, then turned at a small landing—and froze. At the top of the stairs, exposed to the night, lay Sabina, her throat cut and her eyes open. One step down, just beyond Sabina’s lifeless hand, lay a newborn baby.

  A scream rose in my throat, but I choked it down. What good would screaming do? It would only attract attention, which would result in more screaming, and people taking sides, and before I knew it I’d be injured or dead like Sabina, and I would have no answers. I lowered my head into my hand as words flooded my head: YHVH Makeh, YHVH smites. He punishes sin.

  When I could move again, I rushed up the stairs and reached the baby. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. A little boy, perfectly formed, but blue, colored by the night and the lack of life in his little body. The cord had been properly cut and tied, his face had been cleaned, yet here he was . . .

  And Sabina?

  I groaned as I sank to the steps beside her. I did not bother to feel for the pulse of life at her neck; her blank eyes told me she was gone. She still wore her tunic. Her hair was pinned back, her face splashed with flecks of dried blood.

  A tear trickled down my cheek, and I slapped it away. This was not right. Though I did not know details, I knew Sabina’s patient had not done this. A woman who had just delivered a child was not likely to spring up and cut the midwife’s throat. That meant the husband or lover or someone else in the house had committed this murder. Someone who had not been pleased with the outcome of Sabina’s work.