by Tracy Higley
“What? No!” Lydia smoothed the white linen sheath dress embroidered with delicate threads of blue. “No, I sewed this myself.”
“Hmm. Well, you look too elegant to be a servant. I am sick of you and your ideas. Perhaps it’s that troublemaker you spend time with, Samuel. I’ve been meaning to get rid of him. He’s far too old to do much good at the Museum any longer.”
Lydia opened her mouth, but there was nothing to be said. Better to ignore the threat and pray it was spoken without much thought.
Cleopatra observed herself in the bronze once more. “Well, this should be good enough to win Herod as a friend.”
Friend? As the only living Ptolemy left, besides her son, she was a shrewd and wary ruler and no friend to anyone. Not even Marc Antony, who had fallen victim to her charms two years ago, after the assassination of his mentor and her lover, Julius Caesar. She had nothing left of Caesar but his son, and she had quickly understood the need to ingratiate herself to the next man in line to rule all of Rome. Antony’s twins had been born to Cleopatra a few months ago, and she had only grown more paranoid since.
The queen floated from the room on a wave of perfume, leaving Lydia hugging Caesarion all the more fiercely, the younger brother she would never have.
Often as a child she had pretended that she was a princess too. Stolen from her parents who even now searched the world for her. But such dreams were remnants of childhood, and there was nothing, no one, that was truly hers. No one to whom she belonged.
She buried her face in Caesarion’s sweet-smelling hair.
It was best to keep some distance.
Chapter 2
Where would she find Samuel when Lydia finally got free from the demands of Cleopatra, to hear his important news? She would make her appearance with Caesarion as brief as possible and be on her way.
The magnificent central courtyard of the palace, so recently a storm of preparation, was silent save for two huge braziers flanking the reflecting pool, their massive fires devouring dried dung chips and heating the chilly courtyard. Lydia entered from the south hallway, Caesarion in tow, and slowed to a stop under the columned portico.
Cleopatra stood with her back to them, regal at the head of the stone pool, head high. Waiting. On either side of the queen, bare-chested Egyptian guards like sentinel sphinxes rested easy hands on sickle swords.
And then in a moment, the governor of Galilee swept into the courtyard, his retinue in his wake. Dressed in a tunic the color of mustard seed and a white robe tossed casually over his shoulders, Herod had the dark skin and oiled curls of his Arabic heritage, but the bearing of a Greek. He did not lower his head in respect to Cleopatra. At this, Lydia sucked in a small breath. The queen would not be pleased.
But Cleopatra was holding out her hands as if Herod were an old friend come to visit. “At last we meet.” The honeyed tone was one she reserved for manipulation. “How is it such a great friend of my Antony could go all this time unknown to me?”
Herod gave a lift of the eyebrow and a small smile at the gracious greeting. He took her hand, brought it to his lips, and brushed her hand with the briefest of kisses. “My lady. It is indeed an honor to meet the woman who has so recently claimed the heart of one of my oldest friends.”
Lydia ducked her head to hide a smile. Already the two were sparring—Cleopatra claiming Marc Antony as her own possession, and Herod reminding the queen that the two men had been friends for fifteen years, while Antony’s dalliance with Cleopatra only went back two.
“How fortunate for me that you chose to make a stop here on your way to Rome.” Cleopatra extended a hand to a three-sided placement of cushioned couches. “Please, I hope you will not find our Alexandrian winter too cold for dining outdoors?”
Herod eyed the couches, then the braziers, and smiled. “The heat of the fire is almost unnecessary within the warmth of your hospitality.”
A chill breeze lifted Lydia’s hair and chased it around her face. At her side, Caesarion fidgeted and tugged on her hand. “I want to go to Mother.”
Lydia felt his restlessness. The hieroglyphic-carved column was cold, and she wanted to move as well—off to find Samuel and hear this mysterious message about her past and her future.
She pulled Caesarion forward, past the reflecting pool with its water black under the night sky and white lotus flowers straining at the edges as though wishing to break free. In the darkened portico surrounding the massive courtyard, several dozen servants loitered in silence, waiting to be summoned, the whites of their eyes like the lotus flowers. The occasional scritch of sandal or whispered word betrayed their watching presence. In a palace, even the staff schemed in alliances and competed for positions. Conspiracy was not just for royalty. Lydia glanced along the wings. Was Samuel among them?
Cleopatra and Herod settled themselves onto opposing couches, a table laden with Banafrit’s efforts spread between them—flatbread and dates, sycamore figs and almonds, and filled cups of wine. Several young women clustered onto the couches around Herod and two guards stood behind. Cleopatra’s guards likewise circled to her back. The braziers on either side blurred the air with heat.
Lydia hesitated at the perimeter of the couches and waited for Cleopatra to acknowledge their presence.
“And who is this, my lady?” Herod’s gaze traveled the length of Lydia, then rested on Caesarion. “Dressed as a little Roman?”
Cleopatra waved them forward, and Lydia prodded the boy to take a step.
“This is Ptolemy Caesar, Herod. My son and coregent of Egypt, and son of Julius Caesar. We call him Caesarion.”
“Hmm, yes. ‘Little Caesar,’ is it?” Herod shrugged. “Or so they say.”
Cleopatra pulled Caesarion to herself, pinning him under one arm on the couch beside her. Julius Caesar had been officially deified by the Roman Republic two years ago, and Herod’s casual reference was nearly blasphemy. Or would have been, had either of them been Roman.
Lydia stepped back. Could she make her escape now?
“And his nurse, I take it?” Herod’s gaze was on her again.
“Yes, sit, Lydia.” Cleopatra jabbed a finger at an adjoining couch. “You may take the boy in a few minutes.”
Lydia suppressed an exasperated sigh. Cleopatra needed her son as a prop, but it should only last a few minutes before she tired of his restiveness and sent him off. Lydia sat at the edge of the couch, fingers tapping against the fabric. As much as she wanted to find Samuel, Cleopatra’s mood was dangerous, and it would not be prudent to cross her tonight, not after the hostility and desperation she’d shown in her chamber.
“And what of Antony’s brats? I am surprised you have not displayed them tonight.”
Lydia cringed at the harsh reference.
Cleopatra seemed unfazed. “So, you go to Rome to throw your lot in with those who would rule. It seems that Octavian, Antony, and Lepidus have formed quite the solid threesome, have they not? And you hope they will support you against those who would prefer to see a Jew on the throne of Judea?”
Herod draped an arm around one of the women who lounged at his side. He was perhaps a few years older than Cleopatra, in his early thirties, and still exceedingly handsome, with an athletic build and the sensuous features of his heritage—warm, dark eyes and full lips. “I look forward to meeting Octavian.” He reached for a cup of wine and raised it to her. “As I have anticipated meeting you.”
“I fear you will not find Octavian so easily won over as my Marc Antony.”
Lydia watched Cleopatra’s eyes, the calculations that spun like a Persian astronomer studying the night. She lifted her own eyes to the black dome. A star tracked silver across the expanse. Tonight, even the heavens were restless.
Caesarion pulled away from his mother and crawled onto Lydia’s couch, tucking his warm body against hers. She squeezed him to herself in silent acknowledgment of their shared discomfort.
The queen did not appear to notice, but Herod’s gaze followed the boy and then str
ayed to her once more, lingering. “Your boy seems enamored of his nurse.”
Cleopatra sipped at her wine. “Are not all boys? Soon enough he will share the throne in more than name and need the strong arm of a pharaoh. Let him have his affections now.”
Herod was still appraising Lydia. “Yes, well, his affections have found a worthy home.”
At this, Cleopatra turned a fiery eye on Lydia. “Perhaps it is time to send these two on their way.” She nodded toward Herod’s reclining women, then gave him a sultry smile. “And others as well. I should think two rulers would have much to discuss, in private.”
Herod leaned forward and tapped his empty cup twice on the cedarwood table. “And I say it is time for more wine.”
Cleopatra’s eyes were like ice now at Herod’s decided lack of awe in her presence.
As if she had anticipated his need, Andromeda was within the square of couches in an instant, amphora in hand.
How did the girl always present herself at the right moment? She was so focused on pleasing people, would do or say whatever might gain their favor. In this, Lydia had to admit she recognized a bit of herself.
Andromeda still wore the jade-green robe Lydia had glimpsed in the corridors after selling her jug. Would she choose this moment to report Lydia’s moneymaking scheme?
“And yet another beauty.” Herod took the cup from Andromeda’s hand, letting his fingers brush hers. “I should have visited Alexandria years ago.”
“Ah, we would have entertained you well, yes, Andromeda?” Cleopatra lifted her chin to the girl. “Tell Herod how well we entertain those who make a stop in our fair land.”
Andromeda gave Herod a sly smile, almost flirtatious. “The queen is most generous to all her visitors. In fact, it would seem that any head of state who enters her palace also enters her bed.”
Lydia sucked in a breath, shot a glance at Cleopatra. Was the girl only ingratiating herself to Herod, or did she purposely seek to humiliate Cleopatra?
The queen’s expression darkened. She pulled herself upright on the couch.
Even Herod’s perennially charming smile slipped. He cleared his throat and set the wine on the table.
Cleopatra signaled one of the guards behind her with a flick of her finger. “Take her.”
The guard circled the couch in a moment and grabbed Andromeda. The amphora dropped to the mosaic floor and cracked. Wine spattered the stones.
Lydia pulled Caesarion backward.
But Cleopatra’s wrath had been building all night, born of tension over Herod’s visit and perhaps her own scheming plan for Judea.
“Kill her.”
Lydia gasped, sat forward. “My lady!” She thrust Caesarion to the edge of the couch. “Think of your son.”
Cleopatra turned cold eyes on her. “It is my son I am thinking of, girl. How will he learn to rule Egypt well, except to see the strength of his mother?”
Lydia half turned to Andromeda. The girl’s eyes were wild with panic, and she struggled uselessly in the soldier’s grip. He reached for a short sword on his belt.
Lydia clapped her hand over Caesarion’s eyes. The boy whimpered but did not pull away.
A slight gurgle was the only sound Andromeda made before she fell, and her blood mingled with the spilled wine, seeping between the mosaics.
Bile rose in Lydia’s throat. She released Caesarion and fell to the stones beside Andromeda. The light was already going out of the girl’s eyes. Lydia smoothed her hair with a shaky hand. Andromeda’s body twitched once and was still.
Had the braziers eaten all the air in the courtyard, suffocating them all? Lydia struggled to take a breath, her chest constricted, her limbs trembling.
Herod lifted her to her feet and guided her back to the couch to fall beside Caesarion. She rocked the boy against her chest, as much to comfort him as herself.
Cleopatra’s gaze found hers and held. “This is what happens to servants who displease me, son.” Though she addressed the boy, the words were clearly for Lydia, there was no doubt.
Neither did she doubt that Andromeda’s fate would eventually be her own.
How much longer could she fashion pots in stolen moments, secreting away a few obols at a time, hoping to one day get free? Cleopatra’s jealousy spiraled faster than Lydia could spin pots.
She must find out what Samuel had kept hidden about her family.
And then she must leave the palace and find wherever it was she truly belonged.
Chapter 3
The palace halls were in an uproar.
Lydia pushed past clusters of servant girls, yapping like hens in a yard, and threaded through enough low-ranking guards to quell a riot.
Andromeda’s execution had fired panic in the chest of every servant. The girl’s virtues were praised, her shortcomings forgotten.
Cleopatra’s patience with her son’s whimpering ran out while Andromeda’s blood still ran along the stones, and Lydia had fled with the boy, tucked him into his bed with a kiss and a whispered promise to return later, then hurried to the kitchens to seek Banafrit.
Lydia breached the smoky room as the older woman snapped a thin reed against the bare legs of a servant. “Quit your gossip now, girl, and tend the lamps!”
Banafrit’s voice was pitched high and strained, the only evidence that the courtyard execution had affected her. Cleopatra valued the cook’s skills highly, but the respect did not go both ways. The whipped girl ran past the kitchen slaves bent over their tables. Banafrit turned on Lydia with a scowl.
“I should think you would be hiding yourself in your chamber by now. Haven’t seen enough for one night, have we?”
“I must find Samuel. Did he come back here to wait for me?”
“Pah!” Banafrit waved a meaty hand and shoved past Lydia to poke a servant at the cook fire. “I’ve no idea where the man keeps himself. Why ask me? Isn’t he about his prayers or some such thing at this hour?”
Of course. She had lost track of the time. But surely he would be finished at the synagogue soon. He had seemed as eager to speak with her as she with him.
Lydia retraced her steps through the halls and avoided the questions tossed at her by servants curious to hear an eyewitness account of Andromeda. She squeezed up the narrow stairwell from the servants’ level, then took the wide steps at the back of the palace to the expansive second level and along the greenery-covered balcony. She crossed to its end, where it overlooked the city, only one story above the street level, down the length of Soma Street, to the Museum and Library of Alexandria.
From here she could see if Samuel returned to the palace from the stately synagogue of the numerous and respected Jews in the city. The night winds rocked boats in the harbor, slapping waves against their hulls, and across the half-moon of harbor water, high above the promontory, the bronze-reflected fires of Alexandria’s famed lighthouse sent a warning message across the sea to distant ships.
Lydia stood at the half wall and watched the street for the shiny pate of Samuel as he hurried back from his prayers. Torches bobbed through alleys and the wide Soma Street, reflecting from the abundance of white marble buildings. The streets, like the harbor, led away to unknown destinations. Lydia had never been more than an hour’s walk from the palace. How many distant places the world contained.
She had been to the synagogue with Samuel often, taking in the lessons of the Jews’ One God, so different from the magical and mysterious Egyptian gods and the lecherous and angry Greek pantheon. The beauty of all of it interested her in an academic way, though she did not identify herself with any of them religiously since she did not belong to any of them.
Her coloring seemed to indicate both Greek and Egyptian bloodlines, so perhaps she was a mongrel—like the Greek-Egyptian god Serapis, manufactured by the Greek Ptolemies to unify their Egyptian realm.
There! There was Samuel. The fringed linen tallit he wore for prayers draped his shoulders and he bent, muttering to himself, but she would know that hunched walk fr
om any distance, any height.
She ran past the potted junipers to the balcony entrance and then was down the staircase before Samuel had a chance to reach the palace arch. Her sandals slapped a rhythm on the stones as she ran, and she breathed a prayer of thanks that he was still at the base of the outer stairs when she caught him.
“Samuel!” Her whisper sounded harsh, seemed to echo against the relentless waves of the harbor.
He jerked his head toward her, his eyes large. “What has happened? Have they found you?”
“What?” Lydia followed his gaze left and right. “Who?”
“You are frightened.” He took her elbow, then led her from the open staircase, past one of the sphinxes that guarded the stairs to the stone wall along the harbor.
She took a deep breath to control her voice. “Have you heard what she has done?”
At Samuel’s confused look, Lydia spilled the wretched tale.
“I must get out of this palace, Samuel. I know I shall be next. If you could see the way she looks at me—”
His fingers on her arm were like ice. “Why? Why should she look at you as any sort of threat?”
“I—I do not think she is threatened—only . . .” It seemed laughable to say the queen of Egypt should be jealous of her son’s nurse, so Lydia left off and shook her head. “She has executed her own family to protect her power. My death would not even give her pause.”
But he was distracted, her teacher, looking out over the water as if searching for a ship or one of those distant ports. “Yes. Yes, I think it is best that you go.”
“But I have not saved enough for a shop yet. I cannot support myself.” She shook his arm to regain his attention. “You said earlier that you needed to tell me something. Something about my family. Please, if I have a connection somewhere—anywhere—you must tell me so I can fall upon their mercy.”
“Family? What did I say of family?” His eyes had gone dark again.
