Not possible. Not true. Not true.
“You lie!” It sounded as if Father slapped Eros.
“Sire, please,” Eros begged. “They say she was told you had been felled and she could not bear it, so she locked herself in her mausoleum….”
“No! That is not what we planned!” Father seemed to be panting.
“What did you plan, dominus?”
“That she would go to the mausoleum only at the signal of my death. And that she would threaten to torch it if that little worm threatened the children. She couldn’t have …”
I felt my eyes widen. Tata had expected to die? And then I understood. He had intended a warrior’s honorable death in battle, but Octavianus took even that from him.
“One of her ladies came weeping into the palace, claiming the queen … killed herself over the grief….”
“No! By the gods, this cannot be happening!”
I could not breathe. I could not speak. I wanted to jump out and punch Eros. But the wails of despair around the palace grew. I put my hands over my ears. This was not happening. This was not happening. It was not possible for Mother to die and me not know it.
With my ears covered, Father sounded as if he were underwater. I heard something clang to the floor. Eros: “No, I cannot!”
Father, as if from far away. “Do it, I command you.”
A clatter. A fall. A man on the floor. Eros! Blood spurted from his neck and covered the floor in a thick, fast-moving torrent. I recoiled, scrunching even tighter into myself under the desk. Eros’s hand clutched Father’s sword. Goddess, he cut his own throat! But why? What had Father asked him to do?
I felt weighted down, as if Anubis himself had bound me in his sacred bandages. I saw Father reach down toward Eros’s twitching hand and twist his short sword out of it. Eros made gurgling, gasping sounds.
“Eros, you honor me with your faithfulness,” Father said.
As if the Goddess herself whispered in my ear, I suddenly understood exactly what Father intended to do. The dreamlike heaviness evaporated, and I shot out from under the desk, tripping over the heavy gilded bench as it skidded out of my way on the slick, bloody marble.
But I was not quick enough. Father, on his knees, had balanced his sword on the floor, the shining tip at his chest. In one sudden movement, he threw his weight onto the weapon.
“Tata, no!” I cried.
He turned to me, slowly as if in a dream, his eyes wide. “Daughter … ?” He lifted one hand. “Go, go!” he rasped.
I watched, helpless, as he closed his eyes, groaning in pain. He tried to draw a deep breath, and blood flowed fast and dark over his tunic and leather fighting kilt, running in rivulets down his thighs.
“Tata!”
I ran to the door and yelled for Olympus, for anybody, to come and help. Then I raced back to him. Tata had fallen on his side. I tried not to look, but I saw the tip of the blade just poking out through his tunic in the back.
People rushed in. I heard muttered prayers, in Greek and in Egyptian. Someone else yelled for Olympus.
I knelt by Father. “Do not die, Tata, please! The physician is coming!”
He stared up at me. His usually twinkling brown eyes looked muddy and dark. He blinked slowly. “I missed the heart,” he muttered.
I began to cry. His blood pooled at my knees. I held his head and kissed his forehead. He closed his eyes. “Little Cleopatra, go.” Then, after a shudder of pain passed: “Why did nobody warn me … hurts so much? You would think someone … mention it.”
I could not smile, even though I guessed that was what he was trying to make me do. I rocked and stroked his face and prayed. “Isis, help us. Help us, Isis, please.”
Tata closed his eyes, murmuring, “Told you before … Dionysus … better.”
He coughed. Blood filled his mouth. The room crowded with onlookers. Where was Olympus?
One of Mother’s Royal Guards appeared. He cursed in Greek at the sight of Eros and Father. He knelt at Tata’s side and, to my shock, pulled out the sword that impaled him. I squeezed my eyes shut when I realized what he was doing, but I could not keep from hearing the sucking, scraping sound as the metal left Father’s body, or the pitiful groan that escaped Father’s lips.
“I order you …,” Father said, looking up at the man, panting in agony. “Finish the job.”
But the wide-eyed guard did not move. He looked as frozen as I had felt, the sword still dripping in his hands. Olympus ran into the room. “The servants say Antonius has run himself through —”
“As always … on top of things,” Tata panted. “Finish …”
The physician’s eyes traveled from Father to the sword and up to the guard’s face. “You idiot!” he yelled in Greek. “Now I never will be able to stanch the blood!”
The guard dropped the sword in fear and backed out of the room. Olympus yelled for clean bandages and began pressing the cloths on Father’s chest and back. Father tried to use his forearms to push him away, but he was too weak.
“Stop!” he groaned. “You … steal my dignitas!”
But the physician kept on. The thick, sweet, metallic smell of blood filled the room. I grew dizzy. Visions of sacrificed bulls flashed through my mind, rams spouting blood, rivers of blood, pouring into the glittering sacred bowls the priests held below the animals’ wounds, pulsating….
I must have put my hand on the floor at some point, for I saw my smeared, bloody handprint beside Tata’s head.
The wailing around the palace grew louder. Alexandros ran in and skidded to a stop, horror-struck. Mother’s secretary, Diomedes, followed. “The queen has sent for Antonius. What is happening?”
My father gasped. “What? Cleopatra … lives?”
I gasped too, filled with hope. I knew it! It all had been a mistake. Mother would not leave us! And Olympus would fix Father!
Diomedes moved his eyes to the floor and stepped back at the sight of Tata. “Y-yes! She awaits … what has happened?”
A servant whispered in his ear. Diomedes placed his hands on his head. “Gods! What will I tell the queen?”
I looked at Father. His face was pale, paler than I had ever seen it.
“My queen lives?” he repeated in almost a whisper.
“Yes, sire! She asks for you….”
At that, he closed his eyes and emitted a low, groanlike chuckle. A more miserable sound I had never heard, before or since.
“The gods … so cruel,” he muttered. Then more loudly, “Take me … see her … before I die.”
At that, Alexandros fell on his knees beside me. “No, Tata, you will not die! The physician will fix everything!”
“Too late.” Father’s eyes fluttered for a moment, but then he opened them, trying to focus. “Remember … you are Roman …” He gasped, searching for air.
“Stop, Tata, please,” Alexandros said.
“… Roman citizen … “ He looked at Alexandros. “Tell Octavianus … he must spare you … to save himself. Understand?”
Alexandros nodded as tears coursed down his cheeks.
Tata turned to me, his body a shiver of tiny convulsions. “Philadelphos … watch over …”
Ptolly! I had forgotten about him. Where was he? I did not want him to see Tata like this.
Litter bearers rushed into the room. Alexandros and I fell back into the warm pool of Father’s blood as they pushed us aside to get to him. They lifted up my crimson-soaked father and swept him away in a clatter of stomping feet and urgent shouts. I ran after them. One of Tata’s big strong hands hung off the side of the litter, the wrist and fingers loose as if he slept.
Someone grabbed me by the waist and I lost my breath as I flew backward against the arms. “No, Princess,” a guard whispered. “You cannot follow.”
I fought and kicked and screamed, but the man who held me would not release me. I watched, sobbing, until my dying father disappeared into the blinding glare of an Alexandrian summer day.
CHAPTER TEN
<
br /> A kitchen servant ran into the playroom to talk to Zosima. “They’ve got the palace surrounded,” she whispered, though I could hear her as plainly as if she’d yelled.
“Where is the queen?” Zosima asked.
“In the mausoleum. They’ve trapped her with her husband’s body. The queen negotiates to save the children. She threatens to burn all the wealth in there with her unless the conqueror guarantees to not kill them.”
My stomach tightened. Octavianus threatened to kill us? I looked at Ptolly and breathed out in relief when it appeared he had not heard. This is all a bad dream, I told myself. I will waken and Tata will come roaring in, calling for wine and demanding a game of Jactus for high stakes. I looked down to see if I had my coin purse nearby and noticed dried blood underneath my fingernails.
Hours passed. The sound of Roman soldiers — their thick, guttural accents, their loud laughter — filled the palace. We stayed in our quarters, too afraid even to roam the halls. A servant said that the Romans had taken to spearing the tame animals on the grounds for fun, and I prayed Amisi stayed out of their way. Once, I heard a group of men laughing and grunting, along with the cries and pleas of a young woman begging for mercy. Zosima and Nafre exchanged nervous glances, and I wondered if they knew the young woman under attack.
Ptolly cried himself to sleep in Nafre’s arms that night. She had finally delivered the news about Tata.
The palace seemed darker than usual. Torches that had usually lit the paths between the halls and gardens remained unlit. Even the walkways to the Library and the scholars’ apartments looked sinister and dangerous. Only Pharos, the Lighthouse, burned as bright as ever.
Standing on our terrace, I stared at the red flames illuminating the night. I felt betrayed even by the Lighthouse. How was it possible for it to keep shining as if nothing had happened? Did the lighthouse keeper not know that my tata was dead? Shouldn’t he have withheld the fire in his honor? In defiance of Rome? Yet there it was, glowing as brightly as ever over the gray-black sea, directing Isis knew how many more Roman soldiers to our shore. Traitor!
I struggled to manage my rage and grief. Grief over losing Tata and rage against the Romans, who had ambushed Mother and dragged her back to her chambers in the palace. When I went to visit her, the soldier guarding her door announced, “No one sees the queen under Caesar’s orders.”
“Even her own children?” I asked, incredulous.
“Especially her own children.” The man smirked.
The unfairness — the cruelty — of keeping us away from our mother on the day of our father’s death was beyond understanding.
“Why? Why are they doing this?” I wailed to Katep later.
“They are using your lives to bargain with the queen.”
“What?”
“As long as that Roman keeps you away from her, he raises her fear that he has harmed you — or will harm you — in some way. He has made it a punishment of death for anyone who allows you to visit her — or for anyone who allows the queen to visit you.”
“But that is so unfair!”
“Look,” Katep said. “The Roman knows she tried to follow your father into the Land of Inmenet. She turned a dagger on herself when his men burst in, but a guard wrestled it out of her hand. Octavianus holds your lives over her head so she will not try again.”
I must have made a sound because Katep turned to look at me. “I am sorry, Little Moon. I should not have spoken so bluntly.”
But it was not the threat against our lives that had shocked me. It was the shock of hearing that Mother had tried to … had attempted …
She would not! How could she have planned to leave us to fend for ourselves? Surely Katep got the story wrong. Mother had intended to use her dagger to kill the Roman guard. Yes! That was the only explanation that made sense. Mother would never abandon us like that. She would not!
Tata’s sideways grins and growling bear hugs haunted my dreams. I woke searching for Jactus dice to play with him or hearing his laughter as he chased us. But Octavianus made my grief even worse by continuing to forbid us from seeing Mother. I worried constantly: Had he imprisoned her? Hurt her? Was she well?
In my despair, I also grew angry at Mother. Why wasn’t she defying him? She was still queen, was she not?
“She does this for you,” Katep continually reminded me. “To keep him from hurting you and your brothers.” But I had never before seen Mother in a position of weakness. It frightened me as much as it angered me.
During the long days of waiting, we stayed with our nurses in the children’s wing, still too cautious to venture outside. “Roman soldiers are uneducated animals!” Zosima had proclaimed. “We must avoid them completely.”
I believed her. I heard the weeping of women they attacked and the agonized cries of loyal servants they tortured. Alexandros cleaved even closer to Iotape during this period, for she and her nurse had moved into our rooms as well. So I turned to Ptolly and he to me. I took to playing long games of make-believe with him to keep him occupied.
Even so, his tantrums grew legendary. He screamed when we told him he could not visit the lions at the Menagerie, or swim in our private bay, or venture out to the Lighthouse. He threw himself on the floor when he couldn’t get fresh pomegranate juice or the almond sweet cakes he loved so much. The Romans made us eat what the soldiers ate — mostly bread and beans and sour wine, brought up to us by terrified kitchen servants who, despite threats to their very lives, occasionally snuck in fresh figs or grapes and tiny honey cakes.
We became so desperate for fresh air that we took to sleeping outside on our terrace. The sounds and smells of the sea calmed us all. But it was such a lonely time, especially when I saw how often my twin and Iotape fell asleep clasping hands. I wanted somebody to hold my hand. I wanted my tata. I wanted Caesarion, who, I prayed, was still safely on his way to India. I wanted my mother.
Finally, we got word Octavianus would allow us to see Mother. He had called for a meeting in her chambers. Mother commanded our nurses to bring us early.
Nothing prepared me for her appearance. I knew she had been ill with grief after Tata’s death, but I still took a step back at the wraith that met us in her chamber. Her normally glowing skin looked drained of color, as if someone had thrown a sheath of thick linen over the sun. Still, she looked as elegant as she always had in a Tyrrhenian purple gown, the color of royalty. Her favorite golden snake bracelet wound up her arm, its emerald eyes flashing. Golden bands secured her thick dark hair, wound up in the simple Greek way she preferred, and her ladies had painted her eyes with kohl and malachite in a way that usually highlighted their gold-green sparkle. But with a growing heaviness, I saw what had changed. The furious, crackling, intelligent light that shone from Mother’s eyes was gone. She looked defeated, empty.
She did not rise from her couch to greet us, but had us come to her one by one. Ptolly went first. She hugged him, and I could see her eyes fill as she looked him over, drinking in the almost uncanny way Ptolly resembled our father — the curly hair, the twinkling eyes, the bull-like body, the way he stood, legs apart, as if ready to jump into action. My stomach contracted as the truth hit me once more — I would never see my beloved tata again.
Ptolly began badgering Mother with questions, which I could see distressed her: Where was Tata? Why were we not allowed to visit her? Why couldn’t we roam the palace anymore? Ptolly, of course, knew that Father had died, but the sight of Mother seemed to confuse him, and he grew angry and agitated as if Mother were purposely frustrating him. Nafre quickly came to his side and whispered in his ear. She picked him up — even though my brother seemed too big for her to lift — and continued whispering as she took him to the back of the room to show him something, anything, that would distract him from his brewing emotional storm.
Alexandros went up next. Mother hugged him and kissed his forehead. I could not hear what she murmured to him — or what he murmured back — but I could see from the color that rose up m
y twin’s neck that he struggled to maintain his composure.
When it was my turn, I shivered, not wanting to be so close to the dead-seeming eyes, yet longing to lose myself in Mother’s embrace. My throat constricted as I stood before her. She opened her arms for a hug. I closed my eyes as I fell into her warmth. Her special scent filled my nose, a fragrance that always soothed, like the Goddess’s hand on my brow. As she had with Alexandros, Mother kissed me on the forehead, holding my cheeks between her soft hands.
“You are well?” she murmured when I stepped back. “They have not hurt you?”
I shook my head.
“I have been told you were in the room when your father …”
My head shot up and I looked at her. “I am sorry … I should have …,” I whispered, feeling the weight of everything that had happened. The shame, the grief. I should have stopped him. If only I had moved earlier … I could have stopped him!
“Daughter, do not blame yourself. The gods set our fates long ago. I am glad that you were able to say good-bye. It was … These things are important….”
My eyes flicked toward Ptolly. Perhaps that was why he sometimes acted as if he had forgotten Tata was dead?
“I am told Octavianus will take you to Rome but that you will be safe,” Mother said in a quiet voice, as if she did not want to be overheard.
“Rome! I do not want to go to Rome!” I whispered, following her lead. Despite all the evidence, I had still hoped that Mother would somehow miraculously save us and Egypt.
Mother held my eyes and, for a moment, I felt the power and weight of her Horus-like stare. It lightened my heart even as it scared me. “Listen carefully,” she whispered. “Many of my agents are at work here and in Rome; they will look out for your safety. You will know them as followers of Isis. Once we gain contact with Caesarion in India, we will find a way to smuggle you and your brothers to him. Do you understand? We must appear to comply, and when the time is right, unite you.”
Cleopatra's Moon Page 9
