Cleopatra's Moon

by Vicky Alvear Shecter

  But only a young man in a finely woven tunic, followed by two attendants, cantered into view. I breathed out in relief. The children wheeled toward him as one. Grinning, the young man dismounted as they crowded around him. He was dark-skinned, with close-cropped, tight black curls, and even from where we stood, I could see he was exceptionally handsome. He carried himself like a nobleman. But he was clearly of African birth, not Roman.

  “Juba!” Octavia called as he and his swarm of followers approached. “I was so worried about you! I am glad you are finally home.”

  Juba? That was the Punic word for king. Was he a Moor king? But of what African province? Utica? Zama? Numidia? And what would he be doing here, acting like a long-lost member of the family?

  Tiberius peppered him with questions. “Juba, tell me! Did you fight? How many of the dirty Gyptos did you kill? What was Alexandria like?”

  Alexandria? He had been a soldier serving with Octavianus? Had he been on the same boat with us? My mouth dropped open in surprise.

  The young man looked at us and smiled uncomfortably. He did not answer Tiberius’s questions. “I see you have made it to the family in good health, thank the gods,” he said, bowing his head slightly at us.

  “They call you king,” I said in Punic, the primary language of North Africa. “What kingdom do you rule?”

  He stared at me blankly. Had my Punic gone rusty? Mother had required that we learn most of the languages of our neighbors. I tried the Numidian Punic, which was slightly different. “I was wondering what African kingdom you rule, since they call you king.”

  “Stop,” Alexandros whispered. “He does not understand you.”

  “I am sorry,” Juba said in excellent Greek, shaking his head.

  After I asked my question again in Greek, he laughed, showing brilliant white teeth. “But they did not call me king. They called me by my name, Gaius Julius Caesar Juba. I was from Numidia originally, but I have lived in Rome since I was an infant. The Divine Caesar was my patron, and when he died, the kind Octavia took me in.”

  Ptolly frowned. “Is everyone in Rome named Gaius Julius Caesar?” Tonia stomped her foot. “Stop speaking Greek! I cannot understand anybody!”

  “Sorry,” Ptolly said in Latin. “I asked if —”

  Alexandros jumped in, still in Greek. “But juba is the Punic word for king. Do they not realize they are calling you king every time they address you?”

  “No, we did not!” Octavia said in a laugh, clearly fluent in Greek as well. “By all the gods of Olympus, you must not tell my brother about this. Romans hate the idea of monarchy. It will infuriate him!”

  She embraced Juba and kissed him on the cheek. Juba flushed slightly and looked down. In a flash, I remembered where I had seen him before. He was one of the three young officers in the room the day we first met Octavianus in Mother’s chambers. The day Octavianus twisted the truth out of Ptolly so he could hunt down and murder Caesarion. I stepped back, horrified.

  “You were there,” I gasped. “I recognize you now.”

  Everybody froze. Juba looked at Alexandros and me. “Yes, I was there,” he said in a soft voice. “And I wish I had met the exalted House of Ptolemy under different circumstances.”

  I struggled against memories — of Caesarion whispering, “I will see you soon, sister,” before he left; of Octavianus’s evil grin when Ptolly revealed where he had gone; of grief-ravaged Mother wrapping herself in my dead brother’s cloak. I swallowed a swell of sorrow.

  Alexandros must have sensed my disorientation, for he grabbed my hand. “Cleopatra Selene, not here. We must stay strong,” he warned in Egyptian.

  “Strong in what?” Ptolly asked, absently falling into Egyptian too. Tonia threw her arms up in the air. “Now what language are they speaking?”

  Alexandros looked at Juba. “We are sorry,” he said in Latin. “We do not mean to interrupt your homecoming.”

  Octavia watched me with a concerned look. She patted my shoulder as if to soothe my distress. “Well, let’s go in and make an offering to the household gods in gratitude for everyone’s safe arrival,” she said.

  I entered the house of my enemy’s sister, clinging to my brother’s hand.

  That night, I tossed and turned in our crowded sleeping chamber, which the Romans called a cubiculum. While boys and girls generally stayed in separate quarters, my brothers and I had refused to be separated, so we were crammed together into the small room, covered by a heavy brown drape for privacy.

  When we had first seen the cubiculum, Ptolly gasped and asked why they were putting us in the slaves’ quarters. Unfortunately, he asked it in Latin. The servant who had showed us to our quarters harrumphed with outrage and scurried away to gossip about us. Yet how else could we have reacted? We were used to wide, open, sunlit rooms with large windows and terraces that faced the sea. This small, dark, windowless cube looked like a storage room for broken amphorae in comparison.

  I eventually fell into a dreamless sleep. But then, as I had most nights since we had left Egypt, I startled awake in the deep-dark, gasping for air. A window — why was there no window in this dark oven?

  In those first few moments of confusion, I was sure that someone had locked me into an airless, sweltering tomb.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Our enemy’s home on the luxurious Palatine Hill — the most prestigious of the seven hills of Rome — looked small from the outside, so that the average Roman walking by could feel pride in the “modest” way the First Man of Rome lived. But on the inside, it exploded with wealth and extravagance. So many buildings and apartments surrounded his home that it was actually more of a series of interconnected estates.

  Ptolly charmed everyone in the compound and responded well to the excitement and energy of a household filled with children. He and Tonia grew especially close, laughing and playing as if they had been milk mates. Alexandros spent most of his time with Tiberius and Drusus. After several weeks, Alexandros and Ptolly moved into the boys’ wing. I had not been able to talk them out of it. Later I learned that they had been subject to increasingly cruel taunts from the other boys about rooming with girls.

  As for me, I was dismayed to find that of all of the girls in the house, it was Octavianus’s daughter, Julia, who unceasingly sought me out. Fascinated by my life as princess of Egypt, she pestered me with questions about Alexandria, our life in the palace, or what Mother had been like.

  I answered her as patiently as I could, but over time, I began to exaggerate my replies out of annoyance.

  “Was your mother very beautiful?” she asked for the thousandth time as we picked figs one late afternoon.

  “Yes, my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world,” I answered with weariness. “In fact, every man who saw her fell instantly in love.” She did not seem to pick up on my sarcasm. I snatched at an overripe fig and it burst in my hand, the moist, pink flesh releasing a scent so pure and sweet I could not keep from licking my fingers.

  I picked figs that day out of boredom, confined as I was in Octavianus’s compound. In Alexandria, I was used to traipsing off to the Great Library, the Museion, the Menagerie, or the Lighthouse anytime I wanted. But here, the girls seemed never to be allowed to step past the compound’s perimeter. The boys, on the other hand, often left to attend the chariot races, or they trailed after Juba as he went to the Forum or the public baths, where most of Rome’s political business seemed to take place.

  “What made your mother so beautiful?” Julia asked. “Did she have fair hair like mine?”

  “No, she did not,” I answered. “Her hair was as dark as midnight.”

  “Do you look much like her?”

  “Some people say I do.”

  “But you are not so beautiful! You have a big nose!”

  Somehow, our conversations always ended with a vague — or sometimes not so vague — insult aimed at me. I ignored her. I had often overheard people whisper that Octavia was prettier than Mother, and they may have been r
ight. But Octavia’s was the aloof, cool beauty of one of Praxiteles’ statues, while Mother’s beauty was all crackling energy and light. I used to watch people when she entered a room, just to see her effect on them. Everybody — including my brothers and me — turned their faces to her like flowers opening up to the sun. And when she looked upon you and whispered sweet words, it was as if Amun-Ra himself had caressed your cheek.

  Despite my best attempts at keeping my expression impassive, Julia must have seen that her “innocent” little insult had hit its mark. With a smirk in my direction, she dropped her basket and sashayed back to the main house. I abandoned my basket too when I spotted an unfamiliar path in the dense collection of fruit trees.

  Curious, I followed it, only to realize it led to the slave quarters. I stopped when I spied a man and woman lounging in the shade off the path. Turning quietly back, I paused when I realized they were talking about my brothers and me.

  “Those Gypto brats are under Dominus’s legal control now, yes?” the girl asked. “What is he going to do with them?” I recognized her as one of Livia’s new slaves. I snuck closer, crouching behind a warped wooden shed to listen.

  “Well,” the rust-haired Gaul said, “he can beat ‘em, sell ‘em, or kill em if he wants. Law can’t touch him. Really, I don’t know why he hasn’t done so already.”

  The young woman, who looked Greek, clucked her tongue. “Well, it would look bad if he hurt them now, wouldn’t it?”

  The guard grinned. “You know what I think? I think he’s waiting for his wife to come home so she can do his dirty work for him and get rid of ‘em.”

  Remembering Octavianus’s cryptic comment about Livia “managing” us for him, a familiar pit of dread grew in my belly. The slave girl slapped him on the shoulder playfully. “Do not talk about my domina that way!”

  “You don’t know her well enough yet. The garden slaves claim she grows poisonous plants by moonlight and she’s always working on special ‘cures.’ Ya, she’ll ‘cure’ the house of those Egyptian half-breeds is what she’ll do!”

  The young woman looked askance at him. I crouched even lower, fearing that somehow my racing heart would give me away.

  “It’s true. Her body-slave told me she tests her poisons on old slaves. Haven’t you wondered how they always seem to die off when she no longer needs ‘em? Ah, but you haven’t been here long enough to know that.”

  “Stop it, you’re scaring me! And when did you ever talk to her body-slave?” she added in a jealous tone.

  He laughed. “All I’m saying is that I’m glad I work for him and not her. Just do not make her angry.”

  The girl stared off in the direction of Livia’s house with a worried expression.

  “Ah, relax,” the guard said as he nuzzled her neck. “I’ll protect you.”

  I slunk away as their embrace grew more fervent. Could it be true? Was Livia as dangerous as her husband? Part of me wanted to dismiss the conversation as the idle gossip of slaves, but another part of me knew that household slaves always understood the true natures of their masters.

  Either way, I determined to warn my brothers to never ever drink or eat anything Livia Drusilla offered them. It appeared we needed to be on guard from her as much as from him.

  As Greek was our first language, my brothers and I were excused from Greek lessons, though we joined the other children for tutoring in mathematics, philosophy, and literature. I was relieved to see that the girls of the household were educated alongside the boys, though sometimes we girls were forced to miss lessons for spinning work.

  When I was told that I had to spin thread for cloth, I laughed, thinking it a joke. But I quickly learned that every good Roman woman was expected to know how to spin, weave, and sew clothing for the household. Octavianus often bragged that he wore only what his wife, sister, or daughter made. Nothing was further from the truth, of course. He — or more accurately, Livia — owned hundreds of skilled slaves devoted to that task. But claiming that enhanced his image as an old-fashioned, pious Roman and Livia’s as a virtuous Roman matron. So, the girls of the house were forced to learn the art of spinning and weaving for when Octavianus needed to put on a show of upholding traditional Roman values.

  When we entered the dark, airless spinning room, the two Marcellas and the two Antonias, as well as Julia, immediately set to work. A slave pushed a basket with a distaff, spindle, and mound of wool into my arms. “You must spin,” she instructed. “Domina’s orders.”

  Julia must have seen my expression. “Oh, wait! Let me guess,” she said. “Princesses do not sully their hands with such duties, yes?”

  “I was never taught such noble work,” I said diplomatically, hiding my distaste at the almost overwhelming smell of wool and perspiring workers hanging heavy in the dark stone room. “In Egypt, we wear linen.” I did not add that most educated Egyptians would never wear anything made of wool. It was considered unclean and an insult to the gods.

  “In Egypt, we wear linen,” mocked Julia. “In Egypt, everything is better.”

  The slave pointed to the elder Marcella. “You. Show her.”

  Marcella seemed embarrassed, and I could not tell if it was at my lack of knowledge or at being forced to teach me such elementary work. She picked up what looked like a hunk of hag’s hair — clumped gray strands — and held it out to me. “Pull this apart until it lengthens. But not so much that you break it — oh. Well, try again.”

  As simple as it looked, I ended up accidentally shredding great handfuls of the stinking wool. One of the workers behind me hissed, “Never mind! Get her on the spindle.” But I could not figure out how to hold the long stick with my left hand while twirling the spindle with my right. The silent room echoed with the clatters of my wooden implements on the stone floor.

  Finally, Marcella leaned into me. “Ask my mother to be excused from this work,” she whispered. “You should not be expected to take it up now when we learned it virtually at our nurses’ breasts!”

  I smiled gratefully at the sweet-natured girl.

  “Just be sure to ask her before Livia returns,” Marcella warned. “You do not want to anger my uncle’s wife.” I must have looked alarmed, for she added, “It is fine. Aunt Livia typically does not overturn a decision made by my mother.”

  I found Octavia practicing her lyre by the impluvium, the rain pool in the courtyard behind her small home. We children had our cubicula attached to the ends of her house like military barracks — the boys on one side, the girls on another.

  “That is lovely,” I said when she finished her sad tune. And it was. It had been surprisingly full of feeling, filled with loss and longing.

  Octavia looked up at me with an angry flash. “Oh! You startled me.”

  “I am sorry. I did not mean to….”

  “You are as quiet as a cat.” She lowered her eyes as she took a sip from a metal cup beside her. “Would you like some wine? I can have them water it for you.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Well, what can I do for you?” she asked, a perfect smile on her lips.

  I suddenly felt shy, though I didn’t know why. Octavia was meant to serve as mother to my brothers and me, but the very idea of it left me prickly. Nobody could take my mother’s place! Not that Octavia tried much with me. She seemed content to dote on my brothers. Still, Tata had once been married to her, and she had been devoted enough to him to promise Mother that she would protect us.

  “Marcella-the-Elder suggested that I … well …” I hesitated, hating to ask a favor of any Roman.

  Octavia brightened at the mention of her daughter. “Sit, Selene, sit.” She nodded toward a saffron pillow next to her on the marble rim of the pool. At our feet glimmered a fading mosaic of fish and other creatures of the sea.

  I sat. “Marcella recommends that I ask you to release me from spinning duties.”

  A ripple of irritation moved across her face. “And why would my daughter recommend that?”

  “Well, it tu
rns out I have no talent for it, and the slaves were quite put out with the amount of wool I ruined.”

  “The girls in the house spin under Livia’s instructions,” Octavia said. “It is no small thing to disobey one of her direct orders.”

  My stomach clenched. Why did even Octavia seem wary of Livia Drusilla?

  “Perhaps I could provide the younger children additional tutoring in Greek,” I suggested. “Surely, the Princeps’s wife would not take offense if I were making myself useful.” When she did not appear convinced, I added, “Marcella seemed so proud of the fact that your decisions are the only ones Livia Drusilla dares not overturn.”

  A sly smile curled at the edges of her mouth as she stared at me. Finally, she said, “Indeed. I will tell Livia’s overseer that you are officially excused from spinning.”

  “Thank you!” I cried.

  “I wonder,” she mused. “Was your mother as skilled at using flattery to get what she wanted?”

  I blinked. “But I wasn’t trying to flatter you…. Marcella is the one who said …” It felt as if she were insulting Mother — and me — but I could not pinpoint how. Was I just being oversensitive?

  Octavia picked up her instrument and began sweetly strumming the strings. “Please send for the overseer, Selene,” she said. “I will take care of everything. You need not worry.”

  It was a great relief to know I could trust Octavia’s word, for from that moment on I was never again asked to join the other girls at spinning or weaving. My mother had chosen well in making an alliance with her. Which only made me wonder about the alliances that would help us return to Egypt. When would we be contacted by Mother’s and Amunet’s agents? I burned with impatience and curiosity. But then I wondered if the delay was a result of Octavianus still being in Egypt. Perhaps that made it impossible to act on our behalf.

  There was no way of knowing what was really happening. And so I waited as Amunet had instructed.