* * *
The vomit basin by Medousa’s bed was full yet again. The slave Despina hastily replaced it with an empty one, only to have Medousa lean over and heave more of her curdled stomach contents into it.
Despina looked into the basin and furrowed her brow. She looked at a subordinate slave. “Go fetch the physician. There’s blood in it now, and the retching is getting worse. It should be easing up by now.”
“She doesn’t need a physician, Despina.” Livia strolled casually into the room, talking through a mouthful of fresh fig. “She just needs to rest. The physician will only afflict her with a cure that is worse than the ill.” She wrinkled her nose. “Leeches, bleedings . . . Why should we put poor Medousa through such torment?”
Despina turned back to the retching auburn-haired slave and wiped her forehead with a cloth. “Tell me again, Medousa, what did you eat?”
“She ate what the rest of you ate,” snapped Livia, “bread, wine, and figs from the garden.”
Medousa rolled onto her back, and the sight of her blanched, sunken face gave Despina a start. The whites of her eyes were yellow, and the bedsheets were soaked through from her profuse, foul-smelling perspiration.
“I had some fish from the kitchen,” Medousa moaned, “but only one or two bites.” She had no sooner spoken than she vomited again and then passed out from exhaustion.
Despina stared into the basin. “It had to be the fish. Only rancid meat could do this. But she said that she only had a bite or two . . .”
Livia shrugged. “You know what they say, Despina. Fish and company go bad after three days.” She turned to the other slave in the room. “Go to the kitchen and make sure Cook throws out the fish. You’ll be scrubbing the floors for a week if he serves it for dinner.”
“Yes, Domina.”
Medousa made a whimpering sound and regained consciousness, her eyes wide open and already in search of the vomit basin.
Despina held it to her mouth and Medousa ejected into it again. Brown sputum, bright-red blood, and yellow bile. Medousa sighed, rolled onto her back, and fell into a still sleep.
Thank Juno, thought Despina. She needs a few moments of relief.
But then Medousa’s fingers began to twitch in the most disturbing way, followed by her arms and legs. A moment later, her entire body erupted into a violent seizure that made her bounce up and down on the bed. The Medusa pendant around her neck clinked with the fierce movement, and her eyes rolled back in her head.
The spasm stopped as suddenly as it had started. Medousa’s body lay unmoving. A strange exhalation escaped her lips.
Despina placed her ear on Medousa’s chest and floated her hand over her mouth, feeling for breath.
“She’s gone.”
Livia tossed a half-eaten fig into the vomit basin.
“Now aren’t you glad we didn’t send for a physician?” she asked. “It’s a priest that we need.”
Chapter XIX
Damnatio Memoriae
Damnation of memory.
—Latin phrase
egypt, august 30 bce
Later the same year
Cleopatra VII Philopator, queen and pharaoh of Egypt, peered out a high window of her heavily fortified palace. She felt another thud of panic against her ribs. Panic had become a chronic feeling in the last few days.
Caesar’s forces had surrounded the Royal Palace in Alexandria. They struck battering rams against the reinforced doors. They tried to scale the side of the palace to enter through windows. They hacked at the walls with axes.
And they were making progress.
She turned from the window to address Charmion and Iras.
“It is time,” she said. “Tell Apollonius to send Caesarion away now. Through the tunnels.”
Iras nodded. “It shall be done, Majesty.” She hurried away.
Charmion put her hand on Cleopatra’s back. “Are you sure you don’t want to know where they will take him?”
“No,” said Cleopatra. “It is for his own safety. If I am tortured by Caesar . . .” She put her face in her hands.
“Caesar would never violate the queen of Egypt.”
“Caesar would gut the queen of Egypt with his own hands to find Caesarion,” spat Cleopatra, “and then lick the blood off his fingers.”
A moment later, Iras returned and offered the queen a nod. Caesarion was safe. Behind the slave, however, stood a Roman centurion. He wore the same heavy armor and blood-red cloak they all did, but he held his red-crested helmet in his hands. Cleopatra smirked. A rare show of Roman humility.
“Majesty,” said Iras, “this man has a message from Caesar.”
Cleopatra stood as straight as she could. “What is it, boy?”
The centurion looked her in the eye. So much for Roman humility.
“Caesar says that if you give him General Antony, he will spare you and your children. He gives his personal assurance that you will keep your throne, although a Roman presence will remain in Alexandria to ensure you do your duty to Rome. Caesar wishes no further disruption in Egypt. You have until morning to comply.”
Without waiting to be dismissed by the queen, the centurion turned on his heel and left.
Cleopatra collapsed onto the green-leaf mosaic of the marble floor. Charmion knelt beside her. “See? He wants Antony, not you.”
“No,” said Iras. “Caesar will never let her live. He just doesn’t want the Egyptian people seeing him hack their queen to death in the sand.” She also knelt on the floor beside Cleopatra. “Majesty, he knows you want to live. He knows you want your children to live. He gives false hope so that you will give him Antony and do his job for him.”
The queen took Iras’s face in her hands. “But what if it isn’t false hope, Iras? What if it is true? What if I can save the lives of my children? What if I can keep my throne, even if it is just as Caesar’s puppet? Is that not better than death?”
Charmion nodded and looked at Iras. “Caesar hates Antony. If he can kill him, he will be the top man in Rome, and that is all he cares about. He has nothing to lose by keeping Cleopatra alive, especially if he leaves a detachment here. It is in his best interests to have her remain a figurehead on the throne. The Egyptian people support her reign. It ensures stability and avoids more bloodshed.”
Iras shook her head. “You know what he has said about her,” she countered. “That she practices the black arts and can cast spells on Roman men. That she wants to rule Egypt and Rome, to enslave the Roman people and watch them starve. That is what his people believe of the queen. He cannot leave her on the throne, or he will be seen as weak.” She stroked Cleopatra’s hair. “And then there is Caesarion. Majesty, you know he will never let him live. Caesarion is the true blood son of Julius Caesar, while he is only the adopted son. Think on it. You know I speak the truth.”
Cleopatra sprawled herself on the floor and fell into an open sob. “I know it, Iras,” she wept, “but still I want to live. I want my children to live. If there is any chance . . .”
“Then we shall try,” said Iras. She met eyes with Charmion. “Send word to Antony that the queen has committed suicide,” she said. “He will follow her.”
“He will want to see her,” Charmion replied.
“Tell him it is forbidden. The queen’s body cannot be seen by anyone but the priests.”
Charmion stood and was about to leave, but Cleopatra gripped her ankle. “Wait,” she said, “do not send word.”
“Majesty, I know you love him, but—”
“Do not send word,” Cleopatra repeated. “He will not believe it. Deliver the message yourself.”
Charmion nodded gravely. “Yes, Majesty.” She left the queen’s chambers without looking back.
* * *
General Marc Antony was in his secret strategy room—his war room, he called it. He sat on t
he high square base of a massive statue: a red, bronze, and gold lion with its front foot resting regally on a turquoise globe, the kingly master of the world. He wore an Egyptian tunica with Roman sandals.
A giant map of Italy, Greece, Egypt, and Africa hung on the wall, and he was staring vacantly at it. The back of his heels thumped rhythmically against the statue’s base.
“General Antony,” said Charmion. “The goddess Isis sends word. Cleopatra is with her.”
Antony looked at her sideways. “What are you talking about, woman?” But then the light of realization shone in his eyes. He swallowed hard. “Take me to her.”
“It is not permitted. Only the priests can see the queen’s body.”
“I don’t give a shit about the priests,” he said. “Take me to her.”
“They have already taken her away,” said Charmion. “I do not know where. The location must be kept secret so that Caesar does not find her. Her body must be prepared for the afterlife. It must be done properly, you see.”
Antony’s body jerked forward and he slid off the base of the statue, slowly lowering himself to the floor in shock. Charmion took a step toward him, and he reached out to wrap his arms around her legs. His shoulders twitched with heavy, loud sobs, and he buried his face in the fabric of her dress, clutching it so tightly that she had to pry his hands off to prevent him from pulling it off her body.
The slave bent down and withdrew the dagger out of the gold sheath that hung from the fallen general’s left side. She gripped the blade so hard that her blood ran down it, and then held it in front of his face.
“The queen of Egypt orders you to follow her,” she said. “Now.”
Antony ripped the dagger from her hands and scrambled to his knees. “Futuo, you spiteful gods,” he seethed, and in one fast, hard motion thrust the blade upward into his chest to pierce his heart.
Except that the blade didn’t pierce his heart. Blood pooled on the floor and spurted from his nose, but he didn’t die. Instead, he rolled in agony on the orange-and-brown tiles, his grunts and groans of pain mixing with gasped sobs of despair.
At that moment, the door flew open and Cleopatra rushed inside the war room, Iras close behind her.
“Antony, no!” shrieked the queen. “I was frightened, I changed my . . .” She took a few faltering steps and then sank to her knees at the sight of his writhing, bloody body on the floor. She crawled to his side, nuzzling her nose into his hair.
Antony’s legs twitched and straightened as he struggled to sit up and look at her. Alive? His blood-soaked, shaking hands reached up to wrap around her neck. “You conniving Egyptian whore!”
“My love,” she cried. “I am sorry. I am—”
His hands tightened around her neck and, with breathless alarm, she tried to pry off his fingers. Charmion dropped to her knees to help her queen wrench Antony’s death grip from her throat, both of them slipping on the blood-covered floor. But his grip was too tight.
Desperate, Iras lunged for Antony’s dagger on the bloody floor and swiped the blade across the general’s throat. As his body slumped to the side, Cleopatra broke free and fell back.
A shout—in Latin—echoed off the walls.
“Cleopatra Regina! ” barked the same centurion she had spoken to earlier. “Stand up and step away from the general. You are now under the authority of Caesar and the laws of Rome.”
The queen turned her head to see what appeared to be an entire legion of Roman soldiers filling the war room. They had entered the palace. It was indeed over. Caesar had won.
She stood up slowly to avoid slipping in blood, her eyes fixed on Antony. Her husband. His eyes stared blankly at death, and his mouth hung open. His body had stopped moving. He was dead.
He died hating me, thought the queen. He will not look for me in the afterlife.
Abandoning all pretenses, the centurion grabbed the queen’s arm and pulled her back toward her chambers as Charmion and Iras followed. He tossed Cleopatra into the room. Her advisers scrambled to her side and walked her to a couch. She sat down, dazed.
“You will await Caesar’s orders.” The centurion slammed the doors.
On the other side of the queen’s doors, the trembling women heard the deep voices of more Roman soldiers. They were talking and laughing. It was a happy day for them. They would soon be going home to their families as victors. No doubt they were already eyeing the riches in the Royal Palace, waiting for Caesar’s permission to fill their sacks and helmets with Egyptian gold, gems, and ancient treasures.
Caesar. He would arrive any moment to see Antony’s body for himself. And to speak with the queen.
Cleopatra looked down at her dress. It was covered in streaks of red and the bottom was heavy, soaked with Antony’s blood. “Caesar cannot see me like this,” she said to Iras and Charmion.
Her slaves moved with wordless haste to undress and wash her. They outfitted the queen of Egypt in her finest gown, draping gold around her neck and winding it up her arms, darkening the black outline of her eyes and deepening the red of her lips.
Cleopatra reclined on the couch in her chambers, arranged in a way that conveyed both regality and her own brand of inviting femininity, the kind that had worked so well in the past with Roman men. Iras and Charmion stood behind her. Although the slaves dripped with perspiration, they appeared as composed as ever.
And then all three of them waited.
Finally, the doors opened, and Octavian strode into Cleopatra’s chambers, wearing a formed, embossed-leather cuirass around his torso and a heavy red cloak. His expression was cool and confident, even casual—as if conquering a nation and taking its queen captive was an everyday occurrence for him.
He stood in front of Cleopatra and offered a tight, officious smile. “I have confirmed that Antony is dead,” he said. “Rome is grateful for your cooperation.”
Cleopatra returned his smile. “Rome is grateful? And what of Caesar?”
“Caesar and Rome are one,” said Octavian.
The queen allowed her smile to broaden and then sat up straighter on the couch. Her fingers moved over the bare skin of her neck. “Then come sit with me, Caesar,” she invited. “Rome and Egypt have much to discuss.”
Octavian’s smile faded. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing to discuss. And even if there were, it was not the conquered queen’s place to say so. Whatever had worked on Julius Caesar and Marc Antony would not work on him. “You will be advised of what is required of you,” he said.
As he turned to leave, Cleopatra sat up straight. “My children.”
Octavian faced her again. “Your children by Antony will not be harmed. I can assure you of that.”
“And Caesarion?”
“My little brother,” mused Octavian. “What would he have to fear from me?”
Cleopatra’s hatred for him swelled and swirled in the pit of her stomach, mixing with the acidic anxiety that was already there.
“I have other business to attend to right now,” said Octavian, “but we shall speak again soon.” His eyes moved over her neck until they lingered on the trace of a bloody fingerprint. He cast the queen a knowing glance. “Rest now, Cleopatra.”
He left her chambers, and the guards closed the doors behind him, locking them from the outside and falling into muffled chatter.
Cleopatra fought to regain control of her breath. She spoke as levelly as she could. “What will happen now?” she asked her advisers.
Iras sat beside her. “You will be taken to Rome and marched before the Roman people in Caesar’s triumph.”
“And then?”
“Then you will be publicly executed. Perhaps strangled, but most likely beheaded.”
Cleopatra looked at Charmion, waiting for her opposing opinion. The queen had spent her entire life depending on the alternating advice her two wisest advisers were know
n for, an insightful process of back-and-forth strategizing.
Charmion only nodded. “It will be so,” she said.
The queen’s face contorted into a fearful sob. “And what of the children?”
Again, it was Iras who spoke. “He will likely let your children by Antony live. It will be seen by his people as an act of mercy and respect for the children of a once-great Roman.”
“And Caesarion?”
“Caesarion will only live if Caesar cannot find him. But he will tear Egypt apart until he does find him.”
Charmion nodded in sober agreement.
“Isis holds out her hand to me,” said Cleopatra. “It is over.” She stood and walked slowly through her chambers, past a colonnade of palm-tree columns to lie down on her bed.
The exhaustion of the past weeks, the guilty horror of Antony’s death, the threat to Caesarion, and the hopeless finality of her situation all combined to rock the queen into a sudden, strange sleep.
* * *
She awoke with a start. The same impudent Roman centurion as before was in her chambers. He stood above her holding a platter of food and drink in his hands. He was in the midst of a heated argument with the unyielding Charmion.
He set the tray on the bed when he saw Cleopatra open her eyes. “You haven’t had anything since yesterday,” he said. “You need to eat and drink.”
Cleopatra ignored him. “Is it tomorrow?” she asked Charmion.
“Yes, Majesty.”
“What has happened? Where are my children?”
“They brought Alexander Helios and Cleopatra Selene to the doors early this morning,” said Charmion. “We could not wake you, Majesty. But your children live and are unharmed. Iras and I both saw them.”
Cleopatra looked at the two women. She wanted more. She wanted news of Caesarion.
“No other news,” said Iras.
The centurion pushed the tray closer to her. “Eat.”
“I am not hungry,” said Cleopatra.
The centurion brought his lips close to her ear. “You will eat this bread,” he said, “or Caesar will eat your children.” He smiled at her, studying her face.
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