“Have you talked to Octavia about this?”
He stopped pacing and looked at me, head tilted in irritation. But before he could speak, a hand shoved the heavy curtain aside.
“I hear a girl’s voice. What is going on in here?” Tiberius said, stepping into the small cubiculum with us.
Alexandros groaned.
“Oh-ho! Look at this,” Tiberius said, eyes glinting. “Brother and sister having a sweet moment. Drusus, come here!”
I stiffened. I used to think he could have been handsome had his face not been covered in angry, inflamed acne, but now I knew it wasn’t the skin that was the problem. It was the deep well of cruelty in his eyes. Drusus came running.
“I knew you sick Egyptians couldn’t stay away from each other,” Tiberius leered. “Just had to get some ‘private time’ with each other, right?”
“What are you talking about?” I spat.
“You two were going to get married, weren’t you? Is that why you can’t bear to be apart? Admit it!” he growled. “You were going to Iie with each other like every other sick Ptolemy that ever lived. You were going to break all the laws of decency. Come on, show us how you would do it!”
I remembered how Amunet and Ma’ani-Djehuti had named us King and Queen, Brother-Sister, Husband-Wife during our doomed crowning ceremony. It hadn’t seemed at all strange then — hadn’t royal brother-sister marriages always been blessed by Isis and Osiris? But after living in Rome, I saw it, for the first time, through their eyes — as an abomination.
I flushed in confusion, anger, and shame. Drusus put a hand to his mouth and giggled. Tiberius grabbed my upper arm and pushed me toward Alexandros’s chest. “Come on! Do it, you incestuous Gyptos. We want to see.”
“Do not touch me!” I shouted.
“Ha! The girl is the one with all the fight!”
“Leave her alone,” Alexandros warned.
Tiberius stepped up to my brother and grinned. “There is not a damn thing you can do to stop me.”
Alexandros, red-faced, pushed Tiberius hard. Tiberius must not have been expecting it, for he lost his balance and slammed against the small trunk in the corner.
“Oh, that was a very big mistake, princeling,” he said, scrambling up quickly.
“What are you going to do — ask the laundry slave to beat me for you?”
Tiberius advanced. I jumped between them. “Stop it!” I yelled.
Ptolly burst in. “What is happening? Why are you yelling?”
Marcellus came in right behind him. As the oldest and favorite of Octavianus, he commanded great respect among all the boys. “What is going on here?” he asked.
“He pushed me,” Tiberius said.
“After you pushed me!” I cried.
Marcellus turned to Tiberius. “Tell me you did not push a girl.” Tiberius shot me a withering look.
“Can someone please tell me what is going on?” Marcellus asked again. “Tiberius has been beating my brother,” I said.
Alexandros groaned behind me. “I can take care of myself, Cleopatra Selene,” he said.
Tiberius smirked. Marcellus narrowed his eyes at him ever so slightly. I knew that there was little love between the stepcousins. “Do not bring the wrath of the gods down upon this house by breaking the laws of xenia,” Marcellus warned.
“The law of caring for guests applies to guests,” Tiberius growled. “Not hostages captured in war.”
“My mother would be outraged to hear how you are acting,” Marcellus said.
Tiberius blanched. “Well, then, don’t tell her!”
I noticed that Marcellus did not threaten to tell Livia, Tiberius’s own mother — probably because she would applaud his actions. Yet the threat of being shamed in front of Octavia made Tiberius step back. With a flicker of satisfaction I realized that Mother had selected just the right person to watch over us. It was as if she protected us even from the other side.
Ptolly grabbed my hand. He looked about to burst out crying. I knelt down. “Everything is fine,” I said, trying to force a smile. “Just a misunderstanding.”
Tiberius snorted.
“Come back with me,” I whispered with a tight throat. “We will play quiet games all night to annoy Zosima, just like the old days.”
But Ptolly shook his head. He had made his choice. He would stay with the boys.
“Come on, Selene,” Marcellus said. “Let me escort you back to your wing. It is time for all you boys to be in your own rooms.”
Tiberius and Drusus scurried out of Alexandros’s cubiculum right away. I kissed Ptolly on the cheek, but Alexandros would not even look at me.
I walked beside Marcellus, who carried a small bronze oil lamp shaped like a singing bird, the flame emerging from the open beak.
“Will you …” I paused, knowing that what I was about to ask would infuriate Alexandros, but pushed on anyway. “Can you make Tiberius stop hurting my brother?”
Marcellus sighed.
“Please?”
“You don’t understand,” Marcellus said. “Tiberius is not easy to control. And I can’t challenge him directly….”
“Why not?”
“Because I have sworn an oath to my mother that I would not. He is Livia’s eldest. It is difficult enough for him, knowing that his stepfather chooses me as his favorite, without me appearing to taunt him about it. The best thing for Alexandros to do is stay out of his way.”
“Can you at least make him stop commanding slaves to beat Alexandros?”
Marcellus stopped, eyes wide. “What — he orders the slaves to beat him? That is outrageous! Yes, I will certainly put a stop to that.”
I smiled up at him in relief. Alexandros would still have to deal with Tiberius, but at least the odds were better. Marcellus grinned in return. A warmth spread in my chest as I realized that with Marcellus on my side, I could actually do something. I could truly help my brother. I had made my first alliance.
Marcellus may have ordered the slaves to leave my brother alone, but it was Juba, I discovered weeks later, who gave Alexandros the means to truly protect himself.
I had been looking for a shady spot to read when I came upon them in a remote and secluded clearing. My mouth dropped open when I saw my brother wielding a wooden sword and shield. Juba was teaching Alexandros how to fight! Their weapons thudded rhythmically against each other. When they paused, Juba’s low voice floated toward me as he corrected my brother’s movements.
I sat down, unnoticed, with my arms wrapped around my legs, my chin on my knees. After a time, they dropped their weapons and practiced hand-to-hand fighting. Juba came up from behind my brother again and again until Alexandros successfully wrestled him to the ground and kept him there. Their laughter hung in the warm spring air.
“I would love to see the look on Tiberius’s face when you pull this move on him,” Juba said. “He will not sneak up on you again after that!”
They left the clearing without ever seeing me. I wondered if Alexandros asked for his help or if Juba had seen what was happening and offered. Either way, it looked like my brother had made an alliance too.
CHAPTER TWENTY
My enemy’s wife dictated in rapid Latin to her lady as they strolled the garden. I usually avoided Livia, but today I needed her approval to leave the compound. Octavia was always gracious if not outright permissive with me — which is why I preferred to ask her — but she was visiting a friend. I had no choice but to approach Livia Drusilla.
Livia stopped talking at the sight of me.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I have read most of the scrolls your lady has offered me. I seek permission to go to the public library for additional reading material.”
Livia gave some silent signal to her secretary, who snapped closed the wooden wax tablets, lowered her head, and stepped back.
“No.”
“But …” I had not expected such a terse answer. I cleared my throat. “May I ask why?”
“You cannot go to Ro
me’s ‘public library’ because Rome does not have one,” Livia answered.
“I do not understand. How is that possible? Even Pergamum has a fine library. Where do your scholars go when they need to do research?”
Livia frowned and narrowed her eyes at me, a look that could melt a Roman broadsword. It only made me want to raise my chin higher. Her stare of dominance was good, but it did not come anywhere near Mother’s Horus stare.
“Scholars go to their patrons’ libraries,” Livia said slowly.
“But what if the patron does not have what they need? What do they do then?”
“They sail to Alexandria to study in your — excuse me, your former — library. But not for much longer. Soon most of the scrolls will come here.”
“What?”
“Yes. We will build Rome’s first public library with the scrolls taken from your family’s collection,” she said. “Scrolls come with every boat from Alexandria. Until the library is built, most of them are stored in my husband’s tablinum, which I give you permission to visit.”
Our Library, gutted. I could not imagine what a loss this was to our scholars. A surge of anger bubbled up my throat as I realized she was smirking. She enjoyed watching me suffer at the news of the destruction of our precious Library! I would not give her the satisfaction. I brightened and smiled at her. “Thank you for the permission to read from this new and most valuable collection,” I said, and walked off.
On the way toward my enemy’s house, images of the endless colonnade of the dead and dying in Alexandria — so many of them scholars from our Library — burst into memory, and I suppressed a groan. I never knew when these images would descend and take my breath away. Sometimes I saw Tata dying in a pool of blood. Other times I heard the wails of our people at the news of Mother’s death.
I shook my head to clear it. Why did the gods send me these visions? Was it so that I would not forget the crimes against my family and my people? So I could keep close my pain in order to mete out a just retribution when I ruled Egypt? And when would Amunet’s agents contact us? When would something happen?
I entered Octavianus’s tablinum and walked straight into a wall — or at least that is what it felt like. I landed on my backside on the bumpy, tessellated floor, which scratched the backs of my thighs. Scroll dowels clattered everywhere and someone cursed in Latin. I looked up.
“Gods!” Juba said. “I did not see you! Are you all right?” His hand reached down to help me up.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, pulling my tunica down.
“I needed some additional scrolls for my research,” Juba said. “What about you? I would think this is the last place you would want to go.”
“Yes, well, I do not have much of a choice, if I want to read anything besides Roman homilies about virtuous Roman women,” I answered, referring to the scrolls Livia’s lady foisted on us.
Juba chuckled. We bent to pick up the scattered scrolls.
“Livia tells me a lot of these new scrolls are coming from our Library in Alexandria. Is that true?”
“That is the truth, yes,” he said, rerolling a scroll.
I looked around the crowded tablinum and sighed. I picked up a scroll thrown haphazardly on a table and put it up to my nose, breathing in the faint reedy smell of papyrus. Even the oldest scrolls still carried a hint of green from the marshy papyrus groves on the Nile. The scroll’s fastener and tag were made of leather. Papyrus and leather, the smells of the Great Library. I could almost see the sun motes dancing in the beams of light from the high windows … hear the low murmurings of scholars deep at work … the giggles as Alexandros and I hid from each other among the rows and rows of stacks overflowing with scrolls …
“So, you never told me. What scroll are you looking for?”
I cleared my throat. Should I tell him I was hoping to find Manetho’s A History of Egypt for its analyses of successful dynasties throughout Egypt’s long history? Mother had often referred to Manetho’s works. I decided to play it safe. “Oh, I am not sure. Anything that catches my fancy. What about you? What are you researching?”
He laughed. “You mean, what am I not researching? Everything about our history, I find fascinating.”
“Oh! Are there many works on Numidia’s history, then?” I asked. Besides knowing that Punic was the dominant language of the land, I knew very little about his homeland. It would not be a bad thing to learn more about Egypt’s North African neighbors. “Maybe you can recommend something for me to read about Numidia.”
He blinked. “No, I mean Roman history. I am doing research on Rome’s history.”
An awkward beat passed. “I’m sorry. I’m confused. You come from Numidia, yes?”
“I was born there, yes, but I am a Roman citizen,” he replied with finality.
I found this attitude surprising but did not know what else to say. So I pointed to his collection of scrolls and said, “How do you carry them all?”
He laughed. “My man has already left with one basketful.”
I playfully reached over, snatched a scroll from his arms, and unwound it. “Let’s see. Polybius. The Roman Constitution. Would that be the document that contains all of the laws Octavianus has broken to take sole control of Rome?”
He took in a hissing breath and looked around. “Gods, Cleopatra Selene! You should not joke about these things in Caesar’s own household. Do you not realize the danger?”
“Well, of course I realize the danger!” I snapped, embarrassed by his reaction. I had only meant to make him smile. After a breath, I added, “Thank you for using my full name.” Everybody in Rome, except for my brothers, had begun calling me Selene, dropping my mother’s name as if it had never existed. It did not matter how many times I insisted they use my correct name. The Romans had taken my parents, my brother, my people, and my home. I would not let them take my name too.
“You are welcome.”
I pulled another scroll from his pile and unwound it. “Oh! Caesar’s writings on the Wars in Africa. Caesarion used to read some of his tata’s books to me. So this is about what happened to you then, right? Isn’t that when Caesar killed your father and brought you to Rome?” I knew Juba had also been a prince, taken in defeat when Julius Caesar conquered his homeland, Numidia. He had been barely a year old when he was captured.
Juba pulled both scrolls from my hand and replaced them in his stack. He cleared his throat. “Julius Caesar did not kill my father.”
“He didn’t?”
“No, he did not. My father and his ally, the Roman general Petreius, committed suicide by battling each other to the death before Caesar’s legions arrived. They died honorable deaths as warriors.”
I looked down and swallowed. That’s what Tata had wanted — an honorable death as a warrior. Octavianus took that from him too. “What happened to your mother?” I asked. Juba hesitated. “I do not know.”
I could feel my jaw drop. “But how could you not know what happened to your own mother, the woman who gave you life, the queen of your rightful kingdom?”
He shrugged. “The destruction of my family was not a popular topic in Rome.”
“Was she killed?” I asked. “Did they cut down your brothers and sisters in the desert like they cut down Caesarion? Why did they save you and not anyone else in the royal household? Did your mother live long enough to —”
“I said, I do not know.”
“But why didn’t you —”
“Asking ‘why’ is an exercise in futility,” he interrupted. “Do you think I never asked myself why they saved me and killed the rest of my family? Do you think I never wondered what my mother was like? Or regretted never having my father beside me? The important question is not ‘Why was I saved?’ but ‘What will I do with the life that the gods decided to spare?’“
I was taken aback by his intensity, especially since he always seemed so calm and unflappable. “You are a Stoic, then,” I muttered, remembering Euphronius’s lessons.
&
nbsp; “Yes, that’s right. I am a Stoic. I do not spend my passions railing against what has already happened or what cannot be changed.”
“But where is the line between accepting your fate and just rolling over? I am not trying to be rude, but as the rightful king of Numidia, shouldn’t you have worked to fight for control of what was yours by birthright?”
He laughed irritably. “When you have discovered a way to stop Rome from doing whatever it wants, please do let me know.” With that, he grabbed his scrolls and left the room.
Guiltily, I looked down at my hands. Juba was one of the few people in Rome who treated my brothers and me with respect and kindness; I should not have upset him. Worse, I had judged him even though I was no better. What had I done to change my situation?
We’d been in Rome ten months and still no agents had contacted us. Remembering the slaughtered priests and priestesses, I had a new and distressing thought. What if there were no agents in Rome? What if Octavianus had crucified every single person who might have helped us? What if we really were abandoned to this cruel fate, never to return to Egypt and rule?
I shivered. No. Amunet had instructed me to wait and trust Isis. And I would — I would trust the Goddess of All. I had no other choice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In What Would Have Been the Twenty-second Year of My Mother’s Reign
In My Twelfth Year (29 BCE)
The painting seemed to cover the sky. A voluptuous woman, fairer and fuller than Mother ever was, lay naked, her head thrown back and eyes closed as if in pain or ecstasy. The artists had added three-dimensional touches — a gold-painted uraeas crown on her head; gilded bangles at her wrists; and a giant snake, made out of cloth, bobbing in the wind with its teeth attached to her breast.
Eight men held the image aloft on thick wooden poles. Even with only torches for illumination, I could feel my face redden. Alexandros would not meet my eyes. He was as horrified as I was. Ptolly did not seem to understand.
“Herakles!” he nearly shouted when he saw it. “Look at that snake! Is that how that lady died?”
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