by LYDIA STORM
“Look at me, Octavia.”
But she kept her face averted, eyes pressed tightly closed.
“Octavia, I want to look into your eyes when we truly become husband and wife. Look at me,” he ordered.
She bit her lip and jerked her head up to look at him.
Fear, shame and determination all flashed in her eyes just as his body thrust forward, tearing through the virgin barrier of her tender flesh.
Tiny drops of blood spattered across the white sheets as he feverishly took her. His tension was mounting too quickly. He tried to hold back, but before he could stop himself, he exploded inside her in an agonizing rush of horror.
Staggering as a thunderclap, the spell that had bewitched him smashed like the shattered glass of a mirror as the truth suddenly roared into his consciousness. The dreamlike quality replaced now with piercing reality.
The face of his true love, his only love, rose up before him.
Cleopatra.
He gasped, turning away from the young woman who still lay beneath his spent body. “What have I done? Dear Gods, forgive me!” he whispered hoarsely into the empty air of his chamber.
Apparently relaxed, now that it was all over, Octavia tentatively put her arms around Antony. “My lord, there is nothing to forgive. You have only done your duty,” she whispered from the darkness and shyly kissed his cheek.
***
As the last sliver of the waning moon climbed across the heavens over Antony's silent villa, Octavia rose from their bed and went in search of her husband. He had slipped from their chamber soon after the consummation and never returned. She walked through the foreign shadows of the sleeping house, her new home, searching tentatively through the rooms, until she turned into the atrium. A faint sound came from the darkness that sent shivers through her.
She froze in the gloomy atrium, not daring to breathe as the sound, that she could not quite make out, rose and fell from the kitchens in the back of the house. At first it sounded like laughter. But as she took courage and drew closer, Octavia realized it was something else entirely.
With her heart fluttering in her chest, she turned the corner and peered into the kitchen. Antony sat hunched over by the hearth, a jug of wine sloppily spilling down his tunic as he sobbed into his hands.
She stood paralyzed in the doorway. Heavy drinking had never been permitted on the Palatine Hill, and extreme displays of emotion were looked down upon, but the sincerity of Antony’s misery wrung her heart.
Gathering her courage, Octavia moved from behind the shadowed doorway and came to kneel by his side.
Antony looked up, his wild eyes swollen and bloodshot. “What’s the secret name of God?” He raked at his knees with claw-like fingers until livid welts rose up under his nails. “I can’t remember!”
Confused, she opened her mouth to speak. But there was such dreadful longing, such misery in her husband’s eyes she could not think of how to answer.
Antony stared at her for a moment, his gaze blurred and unfocussed. But then recognition sparked and he seemed to realize who he was speaking to. “Forgive me, Octavia. I’m a fool. I’ve ruined you.” He tore at his hair, tugging it back from his face as sobs wracked his large frame.
“No, no you are…you have simply had too much wine!” Octavia rushed to reassure him. “Many men do, I imagine, on such occasions. Please don’t be unhappy. I’m your proud wife. I’m not ruined but honored by you.”
He clutched at her hands as the words poured out of him. A feverish sheen of desperation, like a trapped animal seeking release, kindled in his bloodshot eyes. “Octavia, you’re so good, so beautiful. Many men would be willing to marry you still. We can say the marriage was never consummated, blame everything on me! Say I was unkind or was not man enough to perform my marital duty––anything you want. I’ll give you my villa and riches and servants. You shouldn’t be bound by my foolish mistake.”
Octavia shook her head, her eyes wide with disbelief as she searched his face for clues to his madness. “But, my lord, we are married. Would…would you dishonor me so?” She could not keep the quiver out of her voice. “Am I so unpleasing to you?”
“No, no,” he gripped her hands tighter, almost crushing them. “Don’t you understand? It’s not you who’s unworthy, but me! I don’t want to drag you into my misery!”
She bit her lip as tears started in her eyes. “I don’t understand, but I beg you, don’t disgrace me by leaving me the day after our wedding…please. I will be a good wife to you, I swear it.”
He looked up at her with such despair she instinctively pulled her trembling hands from his grasp, but then remembering her vow to Artemis, with quiet resolve she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her wet cheek to his heart.
After a moment he patted her shoulder and murmured. “I won’t disgrace you Octavia, if that’s your wish. The Gods know, I’ve done enough to hurt you already. You’re innocent of all blame…I am bound by your wishes.”
He rose unsteadily to his feet and pressed a filial kiss on her brow.
“Good night. I’ll do my best for you,” he promised solemnly before gathering his wine jug into his fist and staggering back through the darkness towards their chamber.
Octavia sat staring stupidly at the doorway for a long time.
All of this was her fault. She had not pleased him.
Rising mechanically, she walked outside to the kitchen garden and found the well. She must do better. She woulddo better and Antony would be happy, she vowed to herself as she pumped cold water from the well, splashing it on her face and wiping it clean.
The light of a chilling early winter morning began to brighten the sky, and a few crystal gray snowflakes floated in the air around her. Still dressed in only her thin tunic, she shivered in the cold. It was time she went inside to dress and prepare for her first day as mistress of her new home.
The pronuba arrived with her childhood toys, as was the custom the morning after the wedding. Distracted, Octavia looked through the beloved objects of her girlhood. A soft cloth doll with flaxen hair like her own, a spinning terracotta top with its paint faded and chipped from years of use.
The pronuba cocked her head giving Octavia a knowing smile. “Now that you are a woman, soon you will be having children of your own?”
Octavia tried to politely return the smile. “Yes, I have every hope of it.”
The older woman patted her cheek. “Good girl. You bring glory and hope to all of Rome.”
Octavia quickly bent over her box of old toys to hide the tears threatening to brim over.
***
Octavian was also astir as the gray light of dawn lit up the streets of Rome. He had risen early, as was his custom, to prepare for his day in the Senate. A strict morality law, punishing adultery most severely, was to be passed by the senators today and he wanted to have his speech prepared. After all, it was his duty to protect his sister’s interests, now that she was a wedded matron of Rome.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Iris sprang awake. The sea outside her window was smooth as glass in the dim light of the moon's last glow. She shivered as she pulled a mantle around her shoulders and lit a lamp resting on the small altar near her bedside. She did not relish rising so early, when the world was still bleak and cold, but in an hour the other courtiers would rise, making their pilgrimages to the temple to chant the morning prayers. Her day would be filled with lessons or serving her mistress. She needed this time alone and undisturbed to perform her divinations.
Ever since Antony's ship set sail anxiety had gnawed at her. She saw now, all too clearly, the folly of her hasty magic. Every time Cleopatra laid eyes on her, Iris’s heart skipped a beat. She knew better than most, the Queen of Heaven could read souls as clearly as the scholars in the great library read hieroglyphics. Iris could never hope to hide what was in her heart for long. It was only because Cleopatra was so preoccupied with her son she had not been discovered already.
But now that Caesarion was well
…
The dread clenched her stomach into a tight knot. She must escape. But the idea of leaving court suddenly seemed unfathomable.
When she first conceived of her plan, Iris thought only that Antony would greet her in Rome and shelter her. Now that she had time to considered it, the idea seemed no more than a ridiculous dream––magic or no magic.
Besides, something had gone horribly wrong. She could feel it.
Iris raised a hand to her cheek where the mad raven had clawed her. The faint
tracks of raised skin beneath her fingertips still sent a shudder through her.
Apollodorus had warned her, time after time, not to dabble in enchantments.
Why hadn’t she listened?
If only she knew what took place in Rome. What Antony was doing. It was too soon to expect news, even from the swiftest couriers, but there were other ways to divine the knowledge she sought.
Iris unveiled a polished bronze mirror. Like all of her lovely possessions, it had been a gift from Cleopatra.
The inhabitants of Lochias were still asleep and the only sound was the faint murmur of the ocean outside the palace walls. She crept to the window with her mirror in hand and laid it on the floor. The last beams of moonlight fell on its reflective surface. She extinguished her lamp and the room fell into darkness around the mirror.
There were magical herbs she might take to bring on the visions she desired. But if she swallowed them now, she would not be herself at the temple this morning and the last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself. She would have to see how well she could do without their help.
Pulling a small silk bag from her chest, she knelt before the mirror. Nothing but the darkness of the room and the moonlight were reflected in it. She untied the sack and let the finest grains of sand, gathered from the sacred mound of Abydos where the God Osiris was buried, fall upon the mirror.
“Nephthys, Lady of Darkness, Thou who sees things beyond mortal sight, I pray Thee, show me Antony.”
A slight breeze sprang up from the predawn quiet outside her window and swept the sand into circular patterns around her mirror like ghostly fingers. Everything around her went deathly quiet as she waited in the vacuum of time.
Fearing the spell would break too soon, she forced her mind to grow as calm and still as the air around her, and with her eyes half shut, gazed upon the swirls of sand in the dark mirror.
At first she saw only the designs of the sand, but as her mind settled more deeply, and her vision began to blur and contort, she found herself staring into the midst of a Roman palace. It was the same vision as before. A young golden-haired woman waited under the shadow of Venus. She was dressed in the scarlet veil of a Roman bride. Beside her stood the imposing figure of Antony in his formal toga, his hand clasped in the young woman’s.
She focused more intensely. Had her spell truly worked? Was this her own wedding, yet to come?
But as Antony drew away the veil to reveal the girl's face, Iris realized, though it resembled hers very much, this face belonged to another.
She began to tremble from her core as comprehension suddenly flashed through her brain. She had never put her own name on the shabti doll used for the love spell. Any young woman who resembled the doll could serve to complete the enchantment.
Clutching her convulsing stomach, Iris pushed the mirror away and began to wretch as hot bile filled her throat.
She had brought ruin upon herself and on the ancient house of the pharaohs. For nothing.
Shivering on the cold floor, she lay in the terrible void she had created for herself. What she had done was beyond foolish.
It was treason.
On wobbly limbs, she crawled to her chest once more and pulled out a vial of delicate white flower petals floating in distilled wine. Water hemlock. Taken in small doses it was used as a sedative, but in larger quantities this was deadly poison.
In the darkness of the underworld she could pay for her sins. At least she would not have to face Cleopatra.
Iris stared at the tiny petals swirling in wine. There could be no hesitation or she risked losing courage. Recklessly, with all her self-will, she unfastened the vial, unleashing the bitter turnip-like scent. But before the poison reached her lips, someone sprang from the darkness and knocked the bottle from her hands, sending it smashing against the wall with a sharp crash.
“Charmion!”
Iris gaped in astonishment, but she could see in her friend's eyes that she knew. She knew everything.
Sinking to the floor, Iris crumpled at Charmion’s feet. “Let me die! If you have any mercy, let me die!
Charmion roughly pulled her up, holding her at arm’s length, her strong hands bruising Iris's pale skin. “Stop it!” she hissed. “You must contain yourself! Do you think there will be mercy for you in the darkness of the underworld? When you go before Lord Thoth, who records the deeds of all mortals in the eternal book, he won’t know what you’ve done and you will not be punished?”
“Then let me be punished!” pleaded Iris, trying to tear herself away. “Let me be torn to bits by the Devourer of the Dead himself. In the pain, maybe I’ll forget what I am and what I’ve done!”
Iris broke from Charmion's grasp and slid across the floor, where she lay with her face hidden from view, crying bitterly into her arms.
Charmion moved to grasp the girl again, but apparently thinking better of it, she briefly left the chamber and returned a moment later with an alabaster cup. Without further words, she pulled Iris up again and forced the drink to her lips.
Too beaten and tired to resist, Iris gulped down the potion and her sobs began to quiet.
Charmion wiped Iris’s red bloated face with the hem of her linen tunic. Iris’s eyes had swollen up and grief made her look like an old woman instead of the blooming seventeen-year-old girl she was.
“Charmion,” she whispered, as she turned her head away, “Please don’t be kind to me. I don’t deserve your help. I must die. Be it now or at the Queen's hands.”
Charmion looked grave. “Death may indeed be your fate, but it’s not for you to decide. You must tell Cleopatra what you’ve done and face your punishment honorably.” Her eyes filled with compassion and she looked at Iris almost pleadingly. “Don’t you understand? It’s your only hope when you meet your judgment in the underworld.”
Though the potion Iris had drunk was potent, and beginning to have its sedative effects, she once more pulled away. “I can’t face the Queen! Please Charmion, don’t even speak of it!”
“Have we failed so completely to teach you our ways? You have many faults, but I never thought you a coward. You have brought sorrow enough on this court. Will you do more harm by taking this matter into your own rash hands and ending your life?”
“I would think, the Queen would be pleased at my death, once she knows––that she would demand it,” whimpered Iris, trying to avoid Charmion’s dark glare.
“You do not know her then. Perhaps she will have you executed but she might also spare you.”
“But it’s treason, what I’ve done,” gasped Iris. “She must kill me. Every king or queen must destroy those who work against them!”
“Cleopatra is not just a queen,” Charmion insisted. “She is our Goddess. The rules of mortals are not always the rules of pharaohs.”
Iris sat stunned, the sedative dulling her mind.
“I will leave it to you to decide what’s best.” Charmion, rose to her feet. “Pray to Isis for guidance and remember you are her sworn priestess, no matter what crimes you have committed.”
Iris did not look up but she heard the door close quietly behind Charmion. Outside her window the dawn was starting to break above the sea. She stumbled over to catch sight as Ra's first golden rays touched the surf. The sea gulls rose up in the pale light and a salty breeze wiped clean the tears from her face. Never had the sunrise seemed more achingly beautiful than now that perhaps she was beholding it for the last day of her life.
; ***
Cleopatra sat through another long day at the court of Ma’at. She was robed in glimmering gold and her skill with cosmetics hid the dark shadows beneath her tired eyes. It was all she could do to remain focused on the matter at hand, a dispute between two local landowners who squabbled over a stretch of pasture and several cattle they both claimed for themselves.
But she would give this her attention.
Cleopatra had purposefully kept her mind busy with the business of her court ever since her son’s recovery. Now that Caesarion was safe from immediate harm, she did not want to know what dreadful things lay ahead, what other horrors Caesar’s spirit had come to warn her of.
What could happen to Antony.
As for the two landowners arguing over their cattle, she’d heard enough. Wearily, Cleopatra handed down her judgment and Apollodorus dismissed them. She was bent over a scroll delivered by an envoy from Nubia, when she became aware that a hush had fallen over the court.
Cleopatra looked up. Iris stood pale as death before her throne. The girl sank to her knees and bowed until the tip of her forehead pressed against the floor.
A murmur went through the crowd.
Apollodorus’s face looked thunderous. “Why do you come before the court, Iris?”
Still on her knees, Iris replied, “I am here to confess a crime.”
The courtiers stared at the girl curiously and began to whisper among themselves before Apollodorus struck his staff hard on the floor and called for silence.
“What is it, Iris?” he asked, concern seeping into his voice. His face looked almost as old as its years as he frowned down at her.
On shaking legs, Iris rose to her feet and looked up to meet Cleopatra's eyes. “I come to confess that I––”
But she stammered and stepped back a pace as Cleopatra’s presence grew larger and more dazzling before her eyes. A radiance shone from all around the Queen of Heaven and everyone in the hall quickly fell to their knees murmuring, “Isis! Blessed be the Lady Isis!”
