Cleopatra's Moon

by Vicky Alvear Shecter

  I nodded. Mother had a plan! Of course she did. Her network of agents would not let us down. I smiled at her, relief flooding every atomos of my being. Mother would go with us to India. We would all be together again! It would turn out all right in the end.

  Mother smiled back, and I saw the flicker of fire catch in her eyes. Nothing she could have said or done could have given me more courage than that momentary flash.

  In that instant, a Roman burst in. “Who dared tell you the children could come before Caesar called for them?” he roared.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The man — strong, stocky, and with a heavy brow — scowled furiously. He wore an ornate breastplate, and his red cape was of very rich material. Whoever he was, he was very powerful. Was this my father’s murderer — Octavianus?

  Mother signaled that I should return to stand with my brothers, then she looked at the man. “Why, Marcus Agrippa, surely you would not be so cruel as to keep a mother from having a few private moments with her children — children I have been forbidden to see for weeks, I might add?”

  Not Octavianus, but Agrippa, the general who had trapped Father. I thrilled at Mother’s sarcastic tone. She wasn’t scared of him! She might appear diminished physically, but her spirit had not been crushed.

  A short young Roman wearing an even more ornate breastplate and finer cape sauntered in behind Agrippa. “What has caught your ire now, Marcus?” he asked. Three young officers followed him in and took a position behind us against the wall.

  “The queen disobeyed our orders and called the children to her before your arrival,” Agrippa spat.

  “And the guards did not stop them?” he asked mildly.

  “Somehow, she convinced them it was your wish,” Agrippa said.

  The young man turned to her. “Tsk, tsk, my queen,” he said. Mother bristled at his familiarity. The boy-man continued. “Did we not have an agreement that you would follow my orders precisely … or?” He flicked a look at us.

  “Yes, Octavianus, we did —”

  He slammed his palm on the table, and I jumped. “You will call me CAESAR!”

  Mother stared at him. “We did, sir, have an agreement with which I complied. The agreement was that you would meet with all of us this morning. There was no specified instruction that the children could not visit with me first.”

  While Octavianus focused on Mother, I took the opportunity to study him. This was the man responsible for the death of my father and the destruction of my beloved Alexandria? This was the man who had the world on its knees before him? A less imposing person I could not have imagined. He was short — not much taller than Mother — and slight. The muscled breastplate only seemed to accentuate his small frame. He was sunburned, as if the Egyptian sun had tried but been unable to darken his skin in any way. His brown hair, burned at the tips by sun and wind into yellow strands, rested over a triangle-shaped face — wide at the forehead, coming to a delicate point at his chin. There was nothing frightening about this little man.

  Until he turned toward me. And then it was as if I stared into the cold, dead eyes of crocodile-headed Amut the Destroyer.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, and smiled. “The last of the line of the Great House of Ptolemy.”

  His back was to Mother, and I could see her stiffen as he looked us over. Octavianus strolled back and forth, his hands behind his back. He stopped at Ptolly, seeming struck by his resemblance to Tata.

  “Hmmph,” he muttered. “No doubt who your father was.”

  “Who are you?” Ptolly asked, holding Nafre’s hand.

  “I am Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus,” he said.

  Ptolly furrowed his brow. “But that is Caesarion’s tata’s name. He is the only son of Julius Caesar! And you are not Julius Caesar. I have seen the statues Mother has of him. You do not look anything like him!”

  A still, deadly quiet settled in the room as Octavianus watched Ptolly. “I am the true and only son of the Great and Divine Julius Caesar, young man.”

  Ptolly looked confused. I saw Mother signal Nafre to keep him quiet.

  “Any pretenders to that claim are liars and sons of whores,” Octavianus continued, with as much emotion as one might say the sun was shining that day.

  My heart began to race. My little brother’s face was so open and transparent, I could tell the next question out of his mouth was going to be “What’s a whore?”

  “Ptolly!” I called. He looked at me and I shook my head, praying he would understand my meaning: Do not say another word.

  “Ah, the Ptolemy tradition continues,” Octavianus said. “The cunning female silencing the trusting male.” He knelt down at eye level with Ptolly. “Do you miss your big brother Caesarion?”

  Mother shifted and I glanced her way. Her expression of dawning horror made me catch my breath. What was happening? What did she see that I did not?

  “I miss my tata too!” Ptolly said.

  Octavianus stiffened, then rolled his neck ever so slightly. “Ah, yes. My poor, doomed brother-in-law. How I wish it had not ended this way!”

  I wanted to scream, LIAR! How dare Octavianus try to empathize with Ptolly? Alexandros must have been feeling the same agitation, for he said, through gritted teeth, “And did you know, little brother, that it was this man in front of you who declared war on Tata and caused his death?”

  Ptolly looked confused. Octavianus swiveled to Alexandros, his face dark and angry. “It appears Egyptian half-breeds are not taught to stay quiet when adults are speaking. That will change when you are in Rome.”

  “We are going to Rome?” Ptolly asked. “Is that where Tata is?”

  Mother kept her face impassive, but I could see the panic in her eyes. Octavianus had seized on the weakest one of us and was playing him like a lyre. Mother stood. “Nafre, I believe Ptolly has had enough for today. Please return him to his quarters.”

  Octavianus stood up slowly and scowled at Mother. “I am the only person in this room qualified to give orders,” he said in a quiet voice.

  Nafre paused after turning to lead Ptolly out.

  “And I say,” Octavianus continued, “that the child stays.”

  Ptolly’s nurse looked at Mother, who mouthed, “Go.” Nafre started walking again.

  “Stop!” Octavianus yelled, and she and Ptolly both jumped. He marched over to her and grabbed her wrist so that she released Ptolly’s hand. “Soldier!”

  One of the guards stepped into the room. “Yes, sir!”

  “Take this servant and have her punished for disobeying Caesar’s orders.”

  The man grabbed Nafre by the upper arm. “The punishment, sir?” Octavianus’s gaze traveled up and down her body and he smirked. “Anything the men want.”

  “No!” Nafre cried, terror in her eyes.

  “This is an outrage!” Mother said. “You cannot abuse her in this way! This is the child’s nurse!”

  “Let her go! Let her go!” Ptolly shouted. He began kicking and punching at the soldier, who put an arm out to swat him away.

  “Halt!” yelled Mother. She seemed to grow before our eyes, as if the lion-headed goddess, Sekhmet, had entered her body and growled a bone-rattling warning. As in the old days, everyone instantly quieted and turned to her, including out-of-control Ptolly and Octavianus.

  “Surely,” she said in a cool, dangerous voice, “the great Conqueror of Egypt should not be known as a cruel man. What would that do to his well-deserved reputation — and growing legacy — of clemency?”

  I knew from Mother’s stories that Caesarion’s tata — Octavianus’s adopted father, Julius Caesar — was famous for his leniency and mercy to those he had defeated in war. Mother must have guessed that Octavianus desperately wanted to appear as powerful and benevolent as the great Caesar.

  Octavianus blinked. “Yes. Quite. Soldier, release her.”

  I breathed. She had guessed right. The soldier obeyed, saluted, and left when Octavianus gestured at him with a flick of the wrist. “Howeve
r,” he said, turning toward Mother, “let us use this unfortunate incident to be clear as to who gives the orders around here.”

  Mother had no choice but to acquiesce. She nodded, and I could see how much it had cost her.

  Ptolly had buried his face in Nafre’s waist, and her hand trembled as she stroked his curls. I looked at Mother, wanting to catch her eye, but she watched Octavianus as if he were a dangerous snake that could strike unexpectedly if she blinked.

  Octavianus approached Ptolly again, going down on one knee in front of him. In a soft voice, he said, “Not to worry, little man. Your nurse is safe. Now … look at me.”

  Ptolly refused, shaking his head and pressing his face harder into Nafre’s shift.

  “Did you know I grew up in Rome with your tata?”

  Ptolly sniffed and turned his face slightly toward Octavianus, staring at him with one red eye.

  “Yes,” Octavianus continued, showing his teeth in a crocodile smile. “He once taught me how to wrestle. Did he ever wrestle with you?”

  Ptolly nodded his head, wiping his nose on Nafre’s skirt. My stomach dropped. Why was Octavianus doing this? What did he want? I saw Mother exchange a desperate look with Charmion. “I bet he taught your brothers to wrestle too, didn’t he?” Again, Ptolly nodded.

  “All of your brothers? Including Caesarion?”

  Ptolly nodded yet again and moved his face so that he could see Octavianus with both eyes.

  “Is Caesarion a good wrestler?” Octavianus asked in an innocent tone.

  “Yes,” Ptolly said. “Tata said he was quick and smart like his own tata.”

  “Did Caesarion say good-bye to you when he went away?” Ptolly smiled. “He gave me his favorite toy chariot to keep until I see him again.”

  “Where is he? Did he tell you where he was going?”

  Mother made a strangled sound in her throat. My heart started thudding in my ears. I understood what he was doing now: He was trying to get Ptolly to tell him where Caesarion had gone so he could hunt him down and murder him. And, for an extra dose of cruelty, he was doing it in front of Mother. In front of us.

  Ptolly, too young to pick up the distress of those around him, nodded. “Across the desert,” he said. “On a camel.”

  “Ptolly, stop!” I said. “Do not say any more.”

  Octavianus turned his head slowly in my direction. “Child, you seem to not be aware of what your mother has already gleaned. I will get this information from your brother one way or another. Perhaps you prefer I remove Ptolemy Philadelphos from his family’s protection and question him in private?” He smiled at Ptolly. “Such a sweet little boy. I think I would enjoy that very much.”

  Dread filled my belly. I looked at Mother. She looked trapped and desperate.

  Octavianus breathed out. “Now, Ptolly. Which desert? Which desert was Caesarion riding a camel over?”

  “No!” Mother growled. “I will exchange my life for my son’s! Caesarion will be loyal to you. He will be Rome’s Friend and Ally.”

  Octavianus stood and crossed his arms, a cold grin on his face. “We have been through this before, my queen. Very noble of you, but I need you for my Triumph. And I cannot let any blood-son of my adopted father live to contest my legacy, can I? Two Caesars are simply one too many.”

  I thought Mother might faint. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a strangled sound emerged. I had never before seen her without power, without command. But the woman in front of me was helpless to stop the murder of her own beloved firstborn. The horror of the realization took my breath away.

  I looked for something — someone — to stop Octavianus. To make this horrible nightmare go away. Agrippa? The young officers behind us? I caught the eye of one of them. He looked about Caesarion’s age, also wearing the Roman uniform of a finely tooled leather cuirass and a bloodred cape, though with the cinnamon-brown skin of a North African. Of all of the Romans in the room, he was the only one who seemed disturbed by what Octavianus was doing. I begged him with my eyes to stop Octavianus. But the young African flushed and looked at his feet. Nobody could or would help us.

  Octavianus squatted once more, facing Ptolly eye to eye. “Now. Where did Caesarion go?”

  Do not answer him, Ptolly. Please!

  Ptolly jutted his jaw. “I told you already! To the desert!”

  Octavianus gritted his teeth. “Which desert?”

  Tell him you don’t know. Tell him you don’t know. But I could feel Ptolly’s emotional storm gathering like thick black clouds, crackling with vicious bolts of lightning. And I knew it was too late.

  “The desert on the other side!” he roared. “The one that goes to India!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Octavianus’s men hunted down Caesarion — the king of Egypt, my mother’s eldest, the only true son of Julius Caesar — and murdered him in the desert. My kind, quiet, brilliant sixteen-year-old brother, our last hope for escape and survival, was dead.

  Before we could even absorb the news, Octavianus took Iotape — ripping her from the arms of my sobbing twin — and sent her back to her homeland. Her family, he announced with a vicious grin, had canceled the betrothal to this “fallen House of Ptolemy.”

  Our dreams splintered and cracked around us like marble at the strike of a sculptor’s chisel.

  As before, Octavianus kept us from seeing Mother, so we could not go to her for comfort after learning of Caesarion’s murder. Olympus ordered us to drink a tea of poppy before bed, but I refused, forever dubious of any potion or tea the good doctor sent my way. All night, I tossed in bed while my brothers slept. Images of Caesarion skimmed and wheeled in my mind like Nile terns in flight: a shaft of sunlight cutting through the Temple darkness to illuminate his kohl-painted eyes during prayers; his laughter as I jumped on his back for a ride; his furious scowl of concentration when he studied; the clean, grassy smell of his cloak after he had been out riding….

  A tapping at the door. Katep stirred. A flash of silver as he pulled out the knife hidden in the belt of his tunic. The air was sucked out of my lungs as, once again, the danger of our situation became clear. The Romans had just murdered my brother. Were they coming for us now?

  Katep opened the door slowly. Despite my fear, I tiptoed to his side. A young Roman soldier appeared before us, and Katep stepped in front of me.

  “I have a message from the queen,” the Roman whispered, looking around. “She asks for her children to come to her.”

  “How do we know you come on the queen’s behalf?” Katep whispered back.

  “Because she sent me!” he hissed. “I’m here against my better judgment and I’m not asking again.”

  Katep paused. “The boys … have been medicated. Only Cleopatra Selene is awake.”

  “Well, if she wants to see her mother, she had better come now!”

  He turned and walked in the direction of Mother’s chamber. I shot out to follow him, and Katep grabbed my arm. “Little Moon! What are you doing? This could be some sort of ruse!”

  I shook him off. I did not care. It had been weeks since that horrible meeting in her rooms with Octavianus, after which he had again forbidden us to see Mother. Upon learning of Caesarion’s death, I guessed she must have decided to defy our tormentor. Katep followed me as I raced up to the soldier’s side. “What is your name?” I asked.

  “Cornelius Dolabella,” came the terse reply.

  I looked at Katep. He had earlier told me that a young soldier named Dolabella was Mother’s day guard.

  “Why are you working at night too?” I asked. “I … I, um … asked for night duty too.”

  “Why?”

  He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. “Because. Your mother needs all the friends she can get right now.”

  “Mother has no Roman ‘friends,’“ I said bitterly.

  The soldier turned to me, though he did not slow. “That is not true. I have tried to help the queen in every way I could.”

  “Oh, gods help us,” muttered Katep
under his breath. “The pup has fallen in love with her.”

  As we approached Mother’s antechamber, fear and dread inched up from my center and stole my breath. “I … I changed my mind,” I whispered to Katep. “Let us go back.”

  Katep looked at me questioningly. But before I could explain my sudden panic, Lady Charmion came out of the inner chamber to greet me. Tall, willowy Charmion had always looked meticulously put together, her dark hair arranged so that not even a tendril escaped, her dresses immaculate and elegant. The woman who stood in front of me was a shade of the lady I had known. Her hair hung loose, shot through with gray; her dark dress was stained and wrinkled. Worse, she looked slightly bowed, as if pain had curled her inward like a bloom about to fall off the branch.

  The sight of how grief had ravaged her sent a further shock of fear through me. I knew she loved Caesarion. How much worse must the anguish be for Mother? I could not bear seeing Mother’s pain, her utter diminishment. I would not survive it. I had made a mistake in coming. I turned to bolt from the room, my breathing ragged, but Katep put a hand on my shoulder to steady me.

  “Do not run,” he whispered in my ear. “She needs you.”

  I began to shake. Charmion bid me follow her to Mother’s inner chamber, but Katep stayed behind — whether to keep me from running or to act as a second lookout, I did not know. When I glanced back, he urged me on with his head. It felt as if a ball of sticky bread had gotten stuck in my throat.

  In Mother’s hushed inner chamber, flames from the two small bronze lamps flickered, it seemed to me, in tune with my racing heart. I swept my eyes around the room, looking everywhere — anywhere — but directly at Mother. Her uraeas crown gleamed on a small table, the rearing cobra’s shadow undulating in the tremulous light. Her golden ceremonial dress, the one that made her look like Isis, lay draped over a side couch, with a turquoise and carnelian broad collar over it. Mother’s favorite golden snake armband glittered on a low table. It was almost, I thought, as if she were preparing for a religious ceremony.

  Still, I could not look at her. I looked at the floor, at her bare feet, and at the dark, rich fabric that pooled like blood around them. I knew, without asking, that it was Caesarion’s old cloak. Mother had wrapped it around her shoulders like a shivering child looking for warmth.