by LYDIA STORM
Antony had climbed into his chariot, looking for all the world like a statue of Mars with his bronze breastplate aflame in the torchlight, the muscles of his arms rippling as he held the powerful stallions in check, his dark blue eyes kindling some unholy light.
“Lord Antony.” She spoke quietly, but he looked up the instant he heard her voice. “Stay close to Caesar tomorrow. He will need his friends.”
Antony narrowed his eyes. “Who needs friends when they have an Egyptian witch to do their bidding?”
He snapped his reins with a sharp crack across his stallions’ backs and the chariot tore across the stable yard out into the street, as if he were leading a battle charge.
Cleopatra turned away from the cloud of dirt that rose up in Antony’s wake. If she did leave Rome, she vowed it would be a very, very long time before she put herself through the annoyance of dealing with Marc Antony again.
She brushed the dust from her face, and quiet as a velvet-pawed cat, made her way past the sentries standing guard, to the back of the villa in the direction of the kitchens.
Pushing the door open, she found herself in a drafty room filled with large clay jugs holding grain and olive oil lined neatly against the wall. In the hearth, at the far end of the room, the embers of the kitchen fire still glowed. She passed into the center of the complex where the gardens lay hidden from the outside world. Mosaic tiles glittered beneath the water of flowing fountains. The columns surrounding the gardens were half strangled with ivy and in the darkness the place felt eerie and forbidding.
At the other end of the courtyard, she spotted one of the sentries, a youth barely old enough to join the legions, asleep at his post. She moved through the shadows to his side. A jagged fork of lightning illuminated the garden as the young man awoke and his eyes widened as he beheld the Egyptian Queen.
Cleopatra stepped closer. “I must see Caesar tonight. Bring him to me and this is yours.” She held out a purse heavy with Roman drachmas.
He looked up at her suspiciously. “I would gladly help you, my lady, but Caesar–”
Cleopatra’s face grew as calm and quiet as the Cat Goddess, Bastet. Her eyes bored into his and she watched his pupils dilate as he became lost in the sea-green depths.
Dispassionately, she felt her power to captivate, as she had ever since she was a girl at the court of Alexandria. She held out the coins. “Here.”
Never taking his eyes from her, his hand closed around the purse.
“Show this to Caesar.” She slipped a carved amethyst ring off her finger and handed it to the sentry. “He will know who I am.”
The sentry nodded before stumbling into the villa.
Pacing the dark garden she struggled to hold her fears at bay until a figure appeared beneath one of the archways. She ran into his arms. For a moment she just stayed there, feeling the warmth and strength of Caesar’s body as she relaxed against him.
Caesar gently released her. “My dear, what have I done that you come in such haste in the dead of night to return my precious gifts? It took my finest jeweler three months by the Roman calendar to carve this ring.” The sound of his voice was reassuring, though here in the darkness she could barely see his beloved face.
She smiled in spite of herself as he pressed the amethyst back into her hand, giving it a little squeeze before he let go.
“Caesar, I would never part with a gift of yours, but...” she swallowed hard, trying to think of the best way to convince him he was in mortal danger. “I’ve come to warn you. Isis has sent me a vision that predicts your death. I’m worried about the senators. Doesn’t it seem too easy that they are prepared to vote you kingship tomorrow? Only a few months ago they swore there would never be a king in the Republic of Rome. Yet now they present you with a crown?”
“Ah yes, 'Beware the Ides of March'.” Caesar let out a weary breath. “That’s what my soothsayer tells me, and now you come, practically on the dawn of that very day, and you too warn me my life is in danger.”
“Caesar, you must heed the warning. Believe me, I have never been mistaken in such matters!”
“I believe you, Cleopatra. I’ve experienced too much to question your power to see into the future.” His hands closed around hers. She could feel his palms covered in calluses from holding the reins of his chariot, but his touch was as warm and tender as ever. “But you see, my dear, I would rather die once than to be always in the fear of death.”
“But if it can be avoided,” she pleaded. “Simply don’t go to the Senate tomorrow!”
Once again the lightening flickered in the sky above the garden, illuminating his face. He looked tired, and was it possible, even a bit old? She had never thought of him as anything but vital and vigorous, but the long years spent in endless battles, the deprivations of war, and the constant plotting and scheming to contend with in Rome had taken their toll.
“I’m surprised to hear you say I could avoid my fate, Cleopatra. Haven’t you told me just the opposite so many times before? If it’s the Gods' will that I die, how long can I hope to escape? I have never turned away from battle, and tomorrow, when there’s so much to be gained, I’ll face my enemies as I always have.”
“But Caesar,” her voice shook as she grasped his shoulders. “Of all the Gods, Isis is above fate. I’m her High Priestess. If together we pray, perhaps you will be spared. My dearest, if not for yourself, think of our son! You have not officially recognized him as your heir. If you die, what’s to become of him?”
His arms closed around her and he stroked her hair tenderly. “I never thought the day would come when I would see tears from you.” He pulled off his heavy signet ring with the golden seal of Caesar upon it. “Here, give this to Caesarion. Once I am King, I swear to you by Jupiter, I will publicly claim him as my son and heir to the Roman throne.”
She pressed her cheek against his heart. “I will pray for it.”
He stroked the hair away from her face. “Come, let me look upon you before you go.” Taking her arm firmly in his, he led her back to the archway where a lamp still shed its yellow light into the courtyard.
Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her hair uncombed and hanging loose around her shoulders. He gently wound one dark lock between his fingers, the faint copper streaks burnished with the henna that grew along the banks of the Nile, shone in the pale lamplight.
“Cleopatra, a queen as lovely and wise as you needn’t fear anything. You will always captivate the world, just as you have bewitched me from the moment I saw you.”
She shook her head, but he pulled her close again, his warm lips pressing against hers in a bittersweet kiss. She felt all the longing ache of a final good-bye as his kiss held her. All her heartbreak, all the love and conquests, and the quiet friendship they had shared since he became her lover so many years ago crystallized in this one moment, as soul brushed soul in a last farewell.
He slowly pulled back. Cleopatra clung to him, feeling his hard soldier’s body against her, willing herself to remember this moment, branding into her mind the security of his arms, the rough stubble of his beard against her cheek, his smell of worn leather and cedar oil, the energy and warmth that radiated from him. Since she was a girl of seventeen, with a heavy crown to wear, he had been her pillar, her source of strength, of knowledge and love.
How would she stand without him?
Her heart flooded with tears. She would sink to the floor in grief and never get up. She would pull him down with her and never let him go. Not to the Senate. Not anywhere!
She kissed Caesar hard, one last time, then forced herself to release him. Touching his cheek and gazing into his wise gray eyes she whispered, “The Gods be with you, Caesar.”
Before she could give in utterly to the surge of pain, she was gone, no more than a black cloak turning a corner out of sight. The heavens rumbled uneasily as the first drops of rain spattered onto the courtyard where Caesar still stood.
A great storm was about to break.
***
Cleopatra’s chariot was just able to make it through the thick mud and spatter of heavy rain to the Port of Ostia. Her barge strained against its mooring as the Tiber's fitful currents fought to drag it from shore and the rage of the winds chased all but the most essential crew below deck.
Apollodorus assisted her as she came aboard. She looked into his kind face and read the knowledge of all she endured so clearly written in his eyes. She longed to rest her head on her grandfather’s shoulder and unburden her grief.
But her crew was watching. She must master her emotions, as she had learned to do long ago when her mother died and the priests had quietly taken Cleopatra to the temple, explaining to the stunned little girl what it meant to be the daughter of Pharaoh.
It was past dawn, but the shifting black clouds shut out the sun's light. Cleopatra held her cloak up against the force of the gale. Even by noon they would be lucky to have more then a slight degree of visibility.
The tall Nubian captain of her barge came forward across the slick, rain-drenched deck. “Queen of Heaven, do you truly intend to set sail in this tempest?”
She clung to the side of the boat as a strong gust of wind nearly knocked her off her feet. “Yes, as soon as possible.”
“Forgive me, but it wouldn’t be wise to head into the open sea in such a storm.”
Charmion, who oversaw the last of the precious cargo loaded aboard, glared up at him with dark flashing eyes. “You forget, Captain, we have the daughter of Isis to guide us. The Mistress of the Sea will not harm her High Priestess, or any of her crew.”
The captain looked unconvinced, but reluctantly he nodded and went below to order his crew into readiness.
The moorings were cast off and black sails unfurled, catching the roaring wind. The ship lurched forward, its timbers creaking against the force of the storm, but the heavy barge remained surprisingly stable after that as it fought its way through the gale.
Cleopatra struggled against the lashing rain to the ship's prow, where all her sailors might take courage from the sight of her. She stood, a lone figure facing out to the open sea, the wind whipping back her dark hair, her cloak blowing in the sharp ocean winds.
A barren emptiness consumed her as she looked over the prow at the unending leagues of waves. As much light as would appear had already arrived, bringing with it the day the Romans called the Ides of March. Caesar would be slain by his own men today. The people would riot in the streets and come with death masks and torches to burn his body like trash in the Forum.
Tears mingled with the cold rain against her face. What would it mean, life without Caesar? Egypt without Rome?
She had hoped today, with Caesar's crowning, to begin a world where the East and West would live in peace. Where the ways of the ancient Gods would be venerated, and her sunlit land would continue to prosper and give honor to its ancestors as it always had. She and Caesarion would be safe at last, and when her son grew to maturity and inherited the crowns of Rome and Egypt, the whole world would know a golden age.
But now….
She pushed the throbbing ache of loss deeper inside. She would mourn for Caesar, she would mourn deeply for years, but she could not let grief take her prisoner. Other women could surrender to grief, take it into them and hide alone in the darkness with it while the world went on without them. They could sit and remember the first kiss, the first kind words, the warm tenderness of a lover’s embrace, rolling the memories over and over in their minds like a woman at her spinning, but not Queen Cleopatra of Egypt. If she surrendered to grief there was no one to stand in her place, no one to care for her son, or her kingdom.
She braced herself as a gust of wind swept the deck and the thunder rumbled over the churning water. The cold salty air and stinging rain made her cheeks tingle, but it woke her up too, gave her the vitality she needed. She thought of Caesarion, her baby, below deck and a fierce grief-fueled determination rose up in her. She was alone now, it was true, but she would protect her son and her country. Always she had gone to Caesar as her refuge in times of trouble but she was not a child anymore. And she was not the first pharaoh to rule alone.
She clutched at the outline of the plain bronze locket that lay hidden beneath her tunic and raised her head a notch higher to face the storm.
Isis, whatever the Gods bring I will be there for it. I’ll fight and I’ll never surrender! In your name, I vow it!
Out of the angry black clouds an eagle screeched past, soaring across the winds as swift as a Roman arrow. Cleopatra frowned. What was this bird doing so far from shore?
The eagle swooped closer on the driving winds, as if he flew straight for her. Struggling in his sharp beak, a serpent coiled and twisted seeking release.
Sucking in her breath, she stepped back as the bird swept over the prow, dropping the wounded snake at her feet before echoing a wild shriek and disappearing into the thundering storm. She almost slipped on the rain-soaked deck, but the steady hand of Apollodorus shot out to catch her elbow.
How long had he been there?
She knelt and carefully lifted the dying serpent in her shaking hands. “It is a cobra.”
Cleopatra turned to look into her grandfather’s eyes. For the first time in her life, she found naked terror there.
CHAPTER ONE
Cleopatra VII, Thea Philopater, Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt,
I propose a meeting at your earliest convenience to discuss matters of pressing
importance to both Egypt and Rome.
––Marcus Antonius, Second Triumvirate
Antony scowled and crushed the parchment he had been laboring over in his fist.
His legionary commander stood in the doorway of Antony’s chamber shaking his head. “You behave like some lovesick poet struggling to compose a hexameter for his mistress. Perhaps we should call on our friend Ovid? I hear he has a way with words and women.”
Antony glared at the commander. “Well Germanicus, perhaps you can give me the words to summon Cleopatra and her gold? As you know, she has not troubled to reply to my last two missives.”
Germanicus smiled. “You simply can’t stand it that you have finally met a woman who scorns your advances.”
“The Queen of Egypt is hardly some conquest to be bedded and forgotten.” Antony stared accusingly at the unsatisfactory, crumpled letter before him. “I must find a way to reach her.”
“Why communicate with her at all? Surely, Rome doesn’t need to grovel at the feet of some eastern woman who has no real military strength, no king. She should attempt to befriend you in the hopes you’ll offer her protection.”
“Egypt may not have an army, or a king, but it has the one thing we do not––gold.”
“What of the money confiscated from the traitors who murdered Caesar?”
Antony turned back to his writing table. Uncrumpling the parchment, he spread out his letter, carefully smoothing the creases with his large thumb. “Lost, stolen, hidden, or already spent.” He shrugged and looked back at Germanicus. “I cannot continue to pay my legions without money. Avenging Caesar has not been cheap.”
In fact, it had almost bankrupt Antony. In the aftermath of Caesar's death, chaos had broken out in Rome. Antony, who was now unquestionably the most powerful man in the Republic, had come together with Caesar’s heir, young Octavian, and the old General Lepidus to form a Triumvirate to rule until the Republic could be restored.
Ruthlessly, Antony sought out every one of the traitors. A civil war broke out between the traitors and the Triumvirate, and for two years Antony forgot himself in battle. During that time he forged a reputation for himself as the greatest living Roman general. When at last the battle was won, and Rome was at peace, not a single one of the conspirators survived. Antony had seen to that.
“All of Rome is grateful to you,” said Germanicus.
Antony picked up his wine jug and took a deep drink. “Rome would have been more grateful if I had not allowed Caesar to die in the first place,”
he said bitterly, thinking of how simple it had been for Tribonius to engage him in discussion outside the Senate, when he should have been at Caesar's right hand, ready to support him on such a momentous day.
“Why do you persist in torturing yourself?” demanded Germanicus. “You could have done nothing to save Caesar. Over a dozen men ambushed him. The best you could have hoped for would be to kill a few of them and die yourself.”
Antony raised haunted eyes. The shame he lived with since that day in the Senate was written in the new lines that had etched themselves into his wide brow and around the corners of his mouth. “It would have been an honorable death.”
Germanicus shook his head impatiently. “Forget this. You’ll drive yourself mad.” He settled his gaze on Antony, his intense gray eyes and long aquiline face giving him the sharp look of an eagle. “What we must focus on is keeping Rome intact.”
Antony threw up his hands. “With what money?” He rose and paced the room with his vigorous stride. “Perhaps I should go to Alexandria myself.”
Germanicus looked horrified. “The leader of the Roman Triumvirate kneeling at the feet of that harlot like a beggar! You must be joking!”
“That harlot warned me the night before Caesar was murdered something would happen to him and I dismissed her warnings as Egyptian trickery,” snapped Antony. “But she was right, and I failed Caesar and now he’s dead!”
“Be careful or she’ll poison your mind just as she did his. It’s not your fault he died, but hers. Wasn’t she the one who put thoughts of kingship into his head?”
Antony jabbed a finger at Germanicus’s leather breastplate. “Caesar knew, as everyone with half a brain knows, that Rome needs a strong leader. In case you haven’t noticed, things have changed. We’re not the small provincial Republic we once were.”
Germanicus stood and the color flooded his olive cheeks. His voice was cold as steel. “The Republic is a sacred trust and anyone who would destroy it is a traitor to our heritage and our people.”
