Cleopatra's Moon

by Vicky Alvear Shecter

  Still, I wanted Octavianus to suffer. I pulled his blanket aside ever so slowly. He did not move. I slipped the heavy, blood-soaked head of Anubis’s representative on earth into the bed beside my enemy, as if it were about to take a bite of his torso. Before releasing my hands, I prayed over it. “May your power frighten our enemy. May it be enough to save Ptolly’s ka.”

  I stretched the blanket over them both, wiping my bloodstained hands over the ends of his coverlet. Before bolting from the room, I looked into Octavianus’s face. “Just so we are clear,” I whispered. “Do not dishonor my gods!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I almost tripped over Thyrsus on my way out of Octavianus’s cubiculum. Stepping back into the circle of protection I had drawn earlier, I unbound the magic by redrawing it in the opposite direction. Then I scooped up all the evidence of my work and raced away, holding it all against my waist.

  I thought I had made it when a giant Gaul with long blond braids stepped out of the shadows.

  “Halt!” the man cried in his Gaulish-accented Latin. “Announce yourself!”

  I groaned inwardly, but Zosima had coached me carefully on what to do if I came across one of his guards.

  “It is just me,” I said. Zosima told me I must make my voice sound sultry or seductive, but the best I could do was to keep it from trembling. “Dominus called for a girl earlier.”

  The man narrowed his eyes at me. “At this time of night?”

  I shrugged, allowing the linen dress to slide over my shoulder. His eyes followed it. “You know what he is like when he cannot sleep.”

  “I’ve never seen you before,” he said. “And slaves don’t wear white.”

  Gods! I could not panic. Think, think. Again, I shrugged, allowing the material to fall farther down my shoulder. “I am a new girl. And … and my specialty is pretending to be a Vestal Virgin,” I said in a conspiratorial voice.

  “What’s that on your dress?”

  I looked down. Some of the blood from the woolen cloth had seeped onto the white fabric at my hip. The guard moved toward me suspiciously.

  Please help me, Anubis, son of Isis. “Oh! This is embarrassing! See, I …” I looked down again at the stain. “I began my monthly bleeding and the Great One grew angry. He made me leave and he went to Liv … Domina’s house because he said I had polluted his room.”

  Who knew what kind of strange superstitions his people had about menstruating women? I only prayed that they included getting far from me.

  They did. The giant Gaul took a step back. “Well, do not contaminate me either! Go. Get out of here.”

  I raced away, my breathing sounding to my own ears like the wheezes of a dying monster. I snuck back into the baths and stripped. I did not have time for a full immersion, so I dipped my arms up to my elbows to clean off any traces of blood. As fast as I could, I dressed in my old clothing, wrapped up the bundle — including my bloodstained white dress — and went around back to the slaves’ entrance to the underground hypocaust.

  I ran down the stairs, startling the nearly naked slave stoking the flames. Smoke, red fire, unbearable heat. How did the poor man stand it? The sweat-soaked Iberian looked at me with wide, frightened eyes.

  “Throw all of this into the flames,” I commanded, slipping a golden coin into his hand. “Everything. And do not unwrap it or look into it or you and all your descendants will be cursed forever, for it contains powerful magic that must be destroyed.”

  The slave nodded fearfully and disappeared into his glowing red world with my bundle. I paused, listening for the sound of the clay amphora breaking and the hiss of blood on fire.

  As soon as I heard it, I flew back to Livia’s house, the grass cold and slippery with predawn dew. The sky, although still dark, was turning purple. Sounds of a stirring household echoed around me — the hushed, sleepy voices of slaves, the hiss of torches as their oily tips caught fire, the shuffling of bare feet on stone floors.

  I tiptoed back into the sickroom. Again, my heart lurched at the sight of my little brother’s body. I whispered into his ear exactly what I had done, hoping his ka would be pleased. With shaking fingers, I touched his waxy, cold cheek and returned to my pallet.

  My body vibrated with tension and fear, my teeth chattering even though I clenched my jaw to still the noise. I threw the blanket over my head, curling into myself.

  A rustling behind me. “Cleopatra Selene, are you all right?” Juba whispered.

  I could not unclench my jaw or stop shivering.

  Juba moved beside me. “What happened?” he asked.

  I wanted to thank him for his help, to let him know that I had completed the magic for Calling Forth Anubis. But when I opened my mouth, no sound emerged. Instead, to my horror, I began to cry — great racking sobs that I had tried to hold in, as Alexandros still slept. I could barely breathe for the grief that swelled up in my center like a giant wave blotting out the sun. When the wave crashed, I could do nothing but let it carry me away. I remember only the warmth of Juba’s hand as he rubbed my back.

  The hiss of whispers. Juba speaking softly to someone right outside my door. Where was I? I remembered with a pang so deep I almost winced: I was in the room with Ptolly’s dead body. I heard Alexandros sit up.

  “What is going on?” he called.

  “Check that one,” a voice said. My blood chilled. Octavianus. Stomping feet. Someone pulled the blanket off of me. Octavianus himself jerked me up by my upper arm.

  “Caesar, please!” Juba said. “There is no need for roughness! I have been here all night, and so have they.”

  Octavianus pushed me toward someone: the guard from the night before with his long blond braids. My heart sank.

  “Well?” Octavianus demanded. “Is this the girl you saw last night?”

  I kept my eyes down but could feel the man inspecting every inch of me. I prayed that with my rumpled, dirty tunic — much wider and looser than the tight white tunica I had worn last night — my wild, slept-on hair covering most of my face, and my red eyes, puffy from crying, I would look nothing like the clean girl with slick wet hair that he had seen last night.

  “Answer me, you idiot!” Octavianus demanded.

  “The one I saw last night was prettier,” he said. “And … and taller. Her hair was darker and not as wild.”

  I breathed out, grateful that the big oaf had never really looked at my face but kept his gaze at chest level.

  “No. No. This is not the girl.”

  Octavianus spat at my feet and growled.

  Juba stepped between me and the guard. “Caesar, what has happened?” he asked. “You are alarming me.”

  But before Octavianus could respond, the guard offered in his rough Latin: “Sire, the whore said she had … well … that she had started her monthly bleeding, so perhaps we should ask after all the young women who are, you know … having their regular blood….”

  Octavianus stared up at the guard. Another beat passed, and the man swallowed. Octavianus turned to Juba and said in Greek, “Please tell me my guard is not this stupid, Juba. I really need to hear that right now. Even if it is a complete lie.”

  Juba chuckled nervously.

  Octavianus looked back at the wide-eyed giant, moving his neck as if he had a crick in it. “The story about her monthly bleeding was a ruse,” he said in Latin through clenched teeth. “That is how she tricked you into not stopping her as she left my room stained with blood, you stupid ox!”

  He spoke to Juba again in Greek. “Take him away from me and have my captain of the guard punish him. Lashing, crucifixion, hanging, I don’t care. Just get him away from me.”

  Juba hesitated, glancing toward me in concern. But he had no choice. “Come,” he said in Latin to the guard. “Caesar bids you follow me.” Not understanding his death sentence, the man happily followed Juba out of the room.

  Octavianus narrowed his eyes at me. “You had something to do with it, I know it.”

  “To do with what?” Alexandr
os asked.

  “I have no idea what he is talking about,” I said to Alexandros, thankful my voice sounded thick and raw from crying myself to sleep. With Juba gone, I felt more vulnerable; even the room seemed darker, like heavy clouds had just blocked the sun.

  “We … we have not left Ptolly’s side since … since he died,” my twin said. “What has happened?”

  Octavianus glanced over at Ptolly’s body, then back to the pallet by the door where Juba had lain. I could see the doubt working through his thoughts. Juba said he had been there all night watching us, and the young Numidian’s honesty and integrity had never been questioned. His word was stronger than anything either one of us could have said.

  Which left, I hoped he saw, only one last possibility — that the god Anubis really had sent him a message. A low rumbling of thunder vibrated overhead, as if the god himself spoke. Perhaps the sudden darkness had been clouds gathering after all. If so, I prayed for lightning. Ever since Octavianus had nearly gotten struck by lightning years ago, he had an unnatural fear of storms. I thanked the Goddess for sending one now, even though storms were common that time of the year.

  Fear seemed to radiate from Octavianus’s skinny chest like sweat steaming from a horse run hard in the cold. Another far-off rumble sent the knob in his throat bobbing. “I will not waste another moment on this nonsense. I do not care what you do. Summon your dog priests if you want. But none of your barbaric practices take place anywhere near my grounds or within the city limits of Rome, do you hear me? None.”

  With that, the leader of the world turned on his heels and hurried away.

  With its colonnade of Doric columns and sculpted pediment, the Isis Temple outside Capua looked more like a temple to Athena. But when we crossed the threshold, it was as if we entered Egypt. Brightly colored lotus columns soared to the sky; robed priests and priestesses chanted over bowls of smoky incense, jangling sistrums in time to their song; lotus blossoms floated in golden bowls; painted images in the Egyptian style told the story of Isis’s grief and Osiris’s resurrection.

  A woman dressed in Egyptian blue linen — the color of life and rebirth — emerged from the billowing smoke of incense as if by magic. “Welcome, Children of Ra,” she said in a low and musical voice, bowing. “I am Isetnofret, the Lady of Isis at Capua.”

  Isetnofret. Isis is Beautiful. My throat clenched at the sound of her name. I had longed to meet the lady for years, but I had never dreamt it would happen under these circumstances. Although she looked more Greek than Egyptian with her olive skin and long, curly hair, it was as if Amunet’s voice spoke through her. I wanted to throw myself into her arms, to never leave this place that was so reminiscent of home.

  But, of course, I did nothing of the sort. After our formal introductions — in which she invoked Isis and bid us cleave to the Goddess of Love and Hope during our grief — she directed us to follow her into the temple’s inner sanctuary. Juba, who had accompanied us on the journey, carried Ptolly’s shrouded body behind us.

  After ritually cleansing our hands with Nile water poured from a golden hydria, she brought us to the entrance of the ibw — the Place of Purification — where the mummification of Ptolly’s body would begin, a process that would take more than two months. The Head Priest of Isis stepped forward and bowed, his shaved and oiled head gleaming in the torch-lit passageway, eyes rimmed in kohl. He wore robes of black, the color of death. Two Priests of Anubis, bare-chested and in giant jackal masks, flanked him. An acolyte took Ptolly’s shrouded body from Juba and placed it on the large table inside the chamber.

  The masked Priests of Anubis stepped in front of us and crossed their arms in a symbolic gesture to remind us that we were still of the living. We could not follow our brother into the sacred chamber. The fierceness of their masks reminded me of Ptolly’s reaction when he saw them during the ceremony for Mother — how he had pressed against me in terror.

  The priestess bid us away. I felt Alexandros move, but I could not. Panic surged up my middle. Ptolly looked so tiny and lost on the large metal table. The Anubis masks scared him! Didn’t they know that? Who would comfort him? I could not leave him there alone with strangers.

  Isetnofret put her arm around me, but still I did not move. “Come,” she whispered, and I caught the sweet, spicy scents of lotus oil and myrrh, the smells of Egypt. “You have saved a prince of Egypt by giving his ka a place to dwell for all eternity,” she murmured.

  “But I promised him I’d never leave,” I whispered.

  “And you have kept your promise. I have heard from our followers in Caesar’s own compound how you battled him to ensure your brother’s ka survives.”

  Was that what it was — a battle? She took me by both shoulders and turned me to her, so that my back was to Ptolly and the masked priests. “Do you see how the Power of Isis worked through you? You opposed Caesar and won. The Goddess has not abandoned you. She will bring ma’at to Egypt and return you to the throne as the gods have destined.

  “But you must be patient,” she added. “The Goddess’s timetable is not ours.”

  I allowed her to lead me away. And through the grief and confusion that lingered through the months that followed, one phrase echoed in my mind as if the priestess had yelled it into a bottomless well: You opposed Caesar and won.

  … opposed Caesar …

  … and won.

  PART III: TWO YEARS LATER

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  In What Would Have Been the Twenty-fifth Year of My Mother’s Reign

  In My Fifteenth Year (26 BCE)

  No matter how many times I visited his tomb, I never got used to the sight of Ptolly’s heartbreakingly small mummy. It seemed impossible that his loud, vibrant, intense physicalness could ever have inhabited the tiny shell that was all of what was left of him.

  Ptolly’s mummy faced east to welcome the sun, which was reborn every morning in the same way he was reborn in the afterlife. Colorful hieroglyphic spells on the sides of his wooden sarcophagus ensured his safe journey. His image had been painted on shiny, varnished cedarwood and placed atop the body in the sarcophagus. The artist had not captured the mischievous glint of his eyes or the energy that had seemed to vibrate off his compact body. But the likeness — the curly dark hair, the big brown eyes, the hint of a slightly sideways smile — was true enough.

  I sprinkled incense and sacred Nile water — brought to the Temple with every boat from Alexandria — around his body. I also arranged fragrant blooms on the offerings tray. And then …

  “In honor of the first visit of my fifteenth year,” I announced to Ptolly, unwrapping a linen bundle with a flourish, “I bring you your favorite treats!” Ptolly had always had a weakness for sweets, especially for almond cakes. I smiled, remembering how his cheeks bulged as he stuffed as much of the cake as he could into a single bite.

  Even though it had only been a matter of days since I last visited, I began — as I always did — by telling Ptolly about happenings at the compound.

  “Octavianus has recovered from his latest sickness,” I started. The leader of the world constantly complained of stomach trouble and of weakness of breath. “Livia is forever brewing new concoctions for him to try. I am hoping,” I added in a whisper, “that she gets her recipes mixed up and accidentally poisons him!

  “Sometimes I feel Livia watching me, and I am sure she is wishing me ill. Why she has not tried again to remove Alexandros and me is a mystery. I am convinced that something — or someone — is staying her hand.” I sniffed a lotus bloom. “I suspect, Little Brother, that it is Octavia. Although I know you grew tired of her smothering, she is still the only other person in the household that Livia respects.” I did not add that Octavia continued to refer to him as her “little Marcus,” for I knew his ka would find that displeasing.

  “Alexandros spends a lot of time writing, but he never shares his works with me. I wonder if he is composing love poems, though he gives no hint of who has caught his eye.” Alexandros, si
nce Ptolly’s death, had withdrawn even further into himself, an ongoing concern for me. Sometimes, as on that day, I could not even inspire him to accompany me to Ptolly’s tomb. But it did no good to remind kas of the pain their passing caused, so I said nothing.

  I also did not mention that Alexandros continued scoffing at my plans for returning to Egypt. Once, he wheeled on me in an uncharacteristic rage.

  “Stop it!” he had hissed. “It will never happen. The gods have abandoned us. I never, ever want to hear any more of your foolishness again, do you understand?”

  He had stalked off while I stared after him, feeling as if he had punched me in the chest.

  I shook the memory off. “Marcellus spends more and more time shadowing Octavianus, which only makes Tiberius nastier than ever,” I continued. “I am sure it galls Livia that everyone — not just her husband — dislikes her firstborn…. And Tonia is so big now you wouldn’t recognize her,” I said of Antonia-the-Younger, his favorite playmate. “She sends this for you.” I slipped a small letter she wrote to him in between the blooms.

  “Juba is forever researching obscure facts that he hopes to use in future books,” I added. I didn’t dare admit even to Ptolly’s ka that my attraction to Juba had never waned. Indeed, it had only grown stronger, though I hid it well. Or, at least, I hoped I did.

  Juba often escorted Alexandros and me to Capua. If Juba could not personally escort us, he sent one of his men. He never explained why, but I guessed that he worried about our safety. Traveling was dangerous in and outside of Rome — there was always the chance that we might be set upon by bandits. I often wondered if Livia hoped to take advantage of the travel risks to somehow make us “disappear.” After all, she usually authorized only two spindly stable boys to escort us for protection. Together the boys could not have fought off a one-armed, one-eyed cripple. Juba’s intercession was yet one more way he surreptitiously protected us from the wife of my enemy.