“We are in Rome, and we do things our way,” Octavianus said in an angry whisper. “We burn him on the pyres outside the city walls on the fifth day and that is it!”
Livia, to my surprise, argued for my wishes. “Husband, if the boy’s body disappears, it could be made to look suspicious. But if we allow them to have their Egyptian rites, then you appear kind and magnanimous. You need people to see you that way right now.”
“I see no advantage in honoring their barbaric death rituals,” he said before stomping off. “The boy burns!”
After they left, I sat up and rearranged the flowers surrounding Ptolly’s body. Kissing his cold forehead, I vowed again to honor him in the ancient ways. Or die trying.
That afternoon, I asked for an audience with Octavianus and was refused. Thyrsus, Octavianus’s man, shook his head after blocking me from his tablinum door. “The Princeps is busy now.”
“But I must see him!”
Thyrsus took me by the elbow. “I am sorry about your brother,” he said in a low tone. “But Caesar is not to be disturbed.”
I snatched my arm out of his grip. “I MUST see him,” I cried loudly. “It will anger the Gods of Death if he ignores me!”
Thyrsus paused. Seeing the opening, I pressed on. “When a son of Egypt dies, all the gods of the underworld surround his body, demanding they be honored in the ancient ways,” I announced even louder as I saw wide-eyed servants, slaves, and associates drifting toward me. “Don’t you know they are gathering still? Don’t you feel them?”
Thyrsus grabbed me. “You must go!”
“No!” I screamed. “I must see him!”
The most powerful man in the world burst out of his room. “What is the meaning of this? Thyrsus, remove her!”
“I have been trying to!” Octavianus’s man said with exasperation as he grabbed my arms behind my back.
“I will speak with you!” I yelled as I writhed like a slippery octopus in Thyrsus’s grip. “You must honor the newly grieved!”
Octavianus turned to look at the growing crowd of witnesses to our exchange. He would not dare abuse me or banish me in the face of associates and clients who might spread gossip about his behavior. His image was too important. I had counted on that.
Octavianus glared at me. But then he smiled. “Of course, of course, my dear girl,” he said, playing to the crowd. “One must indeed always honor the newly grieved.”
He drew me in to his study, gripping my elbow with unnecessary firmness. When the door closed behind me, he sniffed and pushed me away from him.
“You smell like death,” he said. “I will have to purify this room after you leave.”
“You must allow us to perform the ancient rites for my brother,” I said.
He smirked. “You don’t seriously expect me to listen to the demands of a barbarian girl, bastard spawn of a witch, do you?”
“The gods punish those who act with hubris,” I said. “Would you risk having them turn on you?” I had prepared this argument, knowing that Octavianus was just as superstitious as most Romans, if not more so. He feared lightning, the dark, and angry gods. I prayed I could use that to turn him to my view.
But Octavianus shook off my words. “I honor my gods. I am under no obligation to honor yours. And I will not have this conversation again. The boy burns. And when you leave this room, you will leave calmly. Do you understand?”
“You would dare anger Anubis?”
To my surprise, he threw his head back and laughed. “A dog god? You and your beasts. They have no power in Rome.”
“If the gods of Egypt have no power here, then why did you ban the Goddess from Rome? Anubis is a true son of Isis. He is not a god who angers easily, but when he does —”
Octavianus put his hand up in my face. “Stop! Your little attempt to frighten me won’t work. My patron god is Apollo, the God of Light and Wisdom. He banishes the evil surrounding your dark gods. He —”
I grinned at him. Something in my expression gave him pause. Like a sorceress speaking an incantation, with my wild and unkempt hair covering most of my face, I muttered, “‘O God of the Silver Bow, who protectest Chryse and holy Cilla and rulest Tenedos with thy might, hear me, O thou of Sminthe….’“
Octavianus looked confused, as if the words sounded familiar but he could not place where he had heard them.
“‘Hear me, ? thou of Sminthe,’“ I repeated. “‘I am calling Apollo your god, he of Sminthe, the mouse god himself.’“
I could see fear mingling with his confusion. “Before you insult my so-called beast gods,” I said, “remember that it is Apollo’s priest, Chryse, who calls him ‘mouse god’ in The Iliad. The mouse cowers in fear of the jackal. The jackal devours the mouse whole.”
His palm slapped my face so hard, I reeled backward. I put my hand to my stinging cheek.
“You dare insult Apollo in my own home?” he hissed.
“I do not insult. I merely speak the truth.”
He grabbed my wrist and twisted it hard. I gasped. “Do not say another word, or I swear by Apollo’s chariot that I will burn you alive alongside your brother,” Octavianus said in a low, dangerous tone. “Do not ever dishonor me or my patron god again, do you understand?”
He brought me closer, twisting harder. I tried to breathe normally, but with the pain and the rank smell of garum on his breath, I could not. I nodded.
He let me go with a push, and I skidded into his desk. Something rolled off it. Without thinking, I reached for it, but his hand slapped me away. He swept up what clattered to the ground and slammed it back down on his desk.
He saw me staring. “My signet ring,” he gloated. “Made from your mother’s golden armbands. I do take such pleasure knowing that what once graced her body now touches mine.”
He grinned at my look of disgust. “Now. Get out.”
I rushed out of his tablinum and back to Ptolly’s body. “Help me, O Goddess,” I begged as I curled into myself at his feet. “Help me save my brother.”
Exhausted from weeping, I dozed as images floated in and out of my awareness. Ptolly called for me: “Klee-Klee, where are you?”
Amunet emerged from smoky shadows. “Isis is your savior!” the priestess said.
“Well, who was Ptolly’s savior?” I cried.
“You are,” Amunet whispered. “Anubis demands it.”
I woke with a start. The room was dark. Someone had put a blanket over me. I looked around. Alexandros slept on a pallet on the other side of Ptolly. I heard a slight snore and saw Juba behind me on a low stool, his back against the wall, chin on chest.
I swallowed as my dream came back to me. “Anubis demands it,” Amunet had said. I lay down on the hard floor, remembering the strange day she taught me to Call Forth Anubis. The day she told me I would need that power to curse my enemies and protect the sons of Egypt.
I gasped, sitting up to stare into the closed, waxy eyelids of my baby brother. My heart raced with a new understanding and hope.
Juba stirred and sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Cleopatra Selene? Are you all right?” he whispered. “Do you want me to pull a pallet for you too? That floor cannot be comfortable.”
I shook my head, rubbing my cheek where the stone floor had left little marks. I moved closer to Juba. “Will you help me?”
“Of course,” he said. “Anything.”
I looked at him in the flickering glow from the almost spent torch in the hallway. Exhaustion and pain were etched on his face — a reminder that other people grieved for my baby brother too. “I cannot let them burn him,” I said. “We must perform the sacred rites.”
“I agree. But nobody has been able to convince Caesar of that.”
“You have tried?” I asked, surprised.
He nodded. How loyal Juba was to my brothers and me! It took me a moment before I could speak again.
“I need your help in getting …” I paused, wondering how I could make this request without shocking or disgusting him. �
��Would you help me get …”
Juba leaned forward. “Whatever you need, Cleopatra Selene. Just tell me.”
I took a breath.
“I need the blood of a black dog.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Juba startled. “What?”
“Fresh blood from a newly slaughtered black dog,” I repeated.
He shook his head, eyes wide. “Cleopatra Selene,” he whispered. “I am afraid you are going mad.”
“I am not, I swear!”
With one hand, he rubbed the wild locks off of my face, leaving his palm cupping my cheek. I closed my eyes and leaned into his hand, melting into his touch. “Oh, child,” he whispered. “You cannot …”
I reared back as if I’d been slapped. Child — again? I was no child, I knew that now. My soul felt as old and dried up as the Red Lands of Egypt’s deserts.
“There is no other way,” I said, my voice hard. “I cannot do it myself. I need you to do this for me.”
“But why would you need such a thing?”
“To convince Octavianus to let us take care of Ptolly the proper way.”
“How in Hades’ name would dog blood help you do that?”
“For a ritual,” I explained. “One that the Priestess of Isis in Egypt herself taught me.”
When Juba did not speak, I tried again. “I have jewels from my mother that Zosima hid for me before we left Egypt,” I said. “I could give you those in exchange for what I need.”
Juba shook his head. “Money is not the issue. I just do not understand why —”
“Please, Juba,” I begged. “I am not mad now, but I fear I will become so unless I succeed. The Lady of Isis told me I would need it to save the sons of Egypt. Ptolly is a son of Egypt. Do you not see? The Goddess knew I would need this! She is my savior, my protectress. I must honor her wishes.”
Juba flicked his gaze to Alexandros, who had stirred. “You will not harm anyone with this? It is for Ptolly?”
“No, I will not harm anyone. And yes, it is for Ptolly!”
“Gods, where will I find the blood of a black dog?” Juba said, then put up his hand. “Never mind. One can find anything in Rome for the right price. What else?”
I closed my eyes, remembering. “An ivory tusk, carved with images of my gods destroying their enemies. And a goat-hair brush.”
Juba exhaled loudly. “You are not making this simple, are you? But I have friends who are secret worshippers of the Goddess. They will help me.”
“We do not have much time. I must perform the ritual right away, before Octavianus throws my brother on the pyre.”
Juba nodded, and I closed my eyes in relief.
At first light, Juba left to gather the things I needed, still looking none too happy about it. I paced in front of Ptolly’s body, thinking, thinking. I had to be able to get near Octavianus’s sleeping room in the hours just before sunrise to perform the ritual. But how could I do that without being detected by him or Thyrsus?
I looked at the low wooden table next to my brother where two full cups of poppy tea lay untouched. Livia had ordered her iatros to make them for us after Ptolly’s death, but I had set mine aside and convinced Alexandros not to touch his either. And because no servant dared enter this “Room of Death,” nobody knew that we had the sleeping potion at our fingertips.
I smiled.
As the day wore on, Alexandros watched my manic pacing with a question in his eyes, but he never said anything. Most of the time, he seemed lost to himself anyway, staring at nothing, saying nothing, but like me, never leaving Ptolly’s side.
When darkness fell that evening, Zosima nodded to me and took away the cups of poppy tea. She was to sneak into the servants’ quarters and add the sleeping potion to Octavianus’s and Thyrsus’s goblets of night wine.
I waited for Juba. He came into the room as he had the night before but this time carrying two additional pallets — one for himself, one for me.
“You will sleep here again tonight?” I asked, surprised.
“I feel compelled to,” he said grimly. “Something tells me you may need my protection.”
When Alexandros finally dropped off to sleep, Juba whispered in my ear, “My man has procured what you asked for. You will find the things hidden behind the oleander bush by the small fountain in the old garden.”
Ptolly’s ka came to me when I dozed. He reached his arms up to me, but when I went to pick him up, he disappeared. I must have cried in my sleep, for I woke myself up, gasping for breath. But his ka’s visit only strengthened my resolve.
In the deepest dark of night, I snuck out of the room, watery moonlight lighting my way to the baths, where the hypocaust workers would soon begin stoking the great fires that would provide us with heated water. With shaking hands, I crept into the cavernous marble room, stripped, and immersed myself in the chilly water. I was not able to purify myself as Amunet and I had done at the Isis Temple, but this would have to do.
I shivered as I climbed out and donned the white linen tunic Zosima had left for me. It stuck to my still-wet body. Gods, why had I not thought to plant a towel too! The fabric clung to my newly rounded breasts and hips. When had this shift grown too small?
Blindly, I felt around the floor until I found the sharp edge of the dagger I had instructed Zosima to leave for me. It was Mother’s dagger, the one Katep claimed Mother had tried to use on herself before getting captured, but I knew better. She had intended to use it on her attacker. I would do the same if I were caught. When my fingers brushed the cool lapis lazuli handle, I released a long breath, unaware that I had been holding it tight within my chest. I hid the dagger in the folds of my belt, checking multiple times that I could draw it out quickly.
I found the clay amphora filled with a black liquid under the oleander bush. I put my nose to the clay jar. Yes, blood. But where were the ivory tusk and goat-hair brush?
I felt around in the dark and found two bundles. The small one contained the ivory and brush. The other one felt wet and heavy. When I opened it up to peer in by the light of the moon and stars, I almost cried out.
The head of the black dog! Gods, I hadn’t asked for this. Why did Juba’s man leave the head here? My heart raced from fear, fatigue, lack of food. Would the god be angry? Did he see it as defilement?
But what if — what if it was Anubis himself who spurred Juba’s man to leave the head for me? What if it was a gift from the great Dark God? I would have to take it with me. I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the darkness in prayer:
O you, Opener of the Ways, Dark Pupil of the Sun, Guide me safely through the terrors of my own unseeing;
Walk with me in my journey of Peril.
I slid without notice into the colonnaded garden outside Octavianus’s room. Thyrsus lay in front of his master’s cubiculum on a rumpled rush mat, a tray with wine and two cups by his head. I hid in the shadows of the corner columns and cleared my throat. Nothing. Thyrsus was a notoriously light sleeper. It appeared the poppy wine had done its job.
Too afraid to step into the center of the peristylum, where the moonlight might make me obvious, I put down my bundles and set to work in the shadows. With the ivory tusk covered in hieroglyphs and magic symbols, I drew a circle of protection on the sand around myself. I could not remember the ancient words Amunet had used, but I thought the god would forgive me for that.
I closed the circle with a trembling hand. Fear gripped my lungs and I fought for breath. I remembered then the terror I felt with Amunet on the day she showed me the spell. This intense fear meant the god was near.
I dipped the goat-hair brush into the amphora of blood. With a shaking hand, I drew the god’s profile on the sand at my bare feet — the long snout, the tall ears, the fierce eyes. “O Great Son of Osiris, Jackal Ruler of the Bows, God of the Necropolis. I ask your protection for a son of Egypt,” I prayed as I painted. “May you guide my hand in delivering him intact to you, so that his ka lives on according to your judgment….”
Fear traveled up my shaking hands all the way to my chattering teeth. I dropped the brush in the amphora and removed the dog head from its soaked woolen wrapping. I stared into one blank, dark eye.
The god’s fear held me. “What do I do with this symbol of your greatness, O God?” I asked.
I stood, swaying, waiting for an answer. Nothing came. I thought about my original plan. To have Octavianus see the spell in blood and fear that he had angered the Dark God. To have that sight fill him with such terror that he would change his mind about caring for Ptolly’s body in the Egyptian manner.
But a new thought stopped my breath. What if he never saw the blood-soaked image? What if I had made a mistake in putting it in the corner? I groaned inwardly. Octavianus had to know that Anubis had been called and that Anubis would demand the sacred rites for a prince of Egypt. He had to!
Then, as if the god himself spoke to me, I knew what I must do. I thanked the god and asked that the circle of protection I had drawn follow me into my enemy’s sleeping chamber.
I stepped over Thyrsus and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark of the cubiculum. Octavianus lay as if dead, one arm over his eyes. The room stank of stale air and sweat.
Such a surge of hatred roiled in my blood at the destroyer of my family, I grew dizzy for a moment. An ugly whisper of a thought — kill him — entered my awareness. Goddess help me, but I considered it. Drugged as he was, he was completely at my mercy. My fingers traced the dagger hidden in my belt. I could cut his throat, I could watch as his vile blood poured forth, ending the nightmare of pain and death he had caused.
Mother would do it, I prompted myself. She wouldn’t even hesitate. With a shaking hand, I withdrew the dagger and held it over his skinny neck.
Mother would want me to do this, to avenge her! I repeated. But still, I could not make my hand move. Was Anubis staying me? I remembered an image in Amunet’s temple of Anubis weighing a heart against the Feather of Truth. Anubis, Judge of Truth, wanted me to live by ma’at and pass the test. I would not dishonor the god or risk Ptolly’s ka with an act that would do nothing to get us back to Egypt. I slid the dagger back into my belt.
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