Octavian raised his chin. “Of course. She was the Queen of Egypt.” But there was no remorse on his face, not even surprise.
“Will you really keep the children alive?” Agrippa asked.
Octavian’s eyes swept over me the way they had swept over my mother’s treasure. “The girl is pretty. In a few years, some senator will need to be silenced. She’ll be of marriageable age and make him happy. And neither of the boys has reached fifteen years. Keeping them alive will seem merciful.”
“And Rome?” Juba wanted to know.
“In a few months, when affairs are settled here, we’ll sail.”
CHAPTER THREE
ALEXANDRIA
July 1, 29 BC
THE VESSEL that was to bear us toward Rome was my mother’s thalamegos, a ship so large that its pillared courtyards had once hosted my father’s mock battles on horseback. From the docks, I could hear the Roman soldiers exclaiming in delight over every small detail on board: the fountains and potted palms in the grottos, the ivory-paneled bedrooms with their gilded images of Isis, the cedar chairs and embroidered couches. But even though all of our trunks were packed, Octavian wouldn’t leave before the taking of the auspices.
Alexander and I stood together on the dock while Octavian held up a frightened quail. Juba passed Agrippa a newly whetted knife, and with a deft flick of the wrist, Agrippa slit the neck of the terrified bird. The quail’s blood dripped between Octavian’s fingers, staining them red before trickling onto the planks. The five of us looked to the augur, whose head was covered by a heavy linen cloth.
“What does it mean?” Octavian demanded.
The augur held up his hand and shook his head. “It must make a pattern first.”
Next to me, Juba smiled. “He thinks that by reading the splattering of some blood he’ll be able to tell us whether the gods plan to send this ship to the bottom of the sea,” he said in Parthian. “Of course, if the augur’s wrong, there’ll be no one alive to challenge him.”
“How do you know Parthian?” my brother whispered.
“I’m Caesar’s spy among the people. I wouldn’t be very successful if I didn’t know a few languages, would I?”
I suspected he was being sarcastic when he said “a few,” and suddenly I felt sick. “So you’ve been telling Caesar what we’ve been saying?”
“Why would I do that when nothing you’ve said has been of any interest? But the walls in Rome have ears, Princess.”
“Your ears.”
“And many others.”
Octavian was watching our exchange with interest.
“So you send men to their deaths,” I said to Juba. “To prison.”
“Only if they’re assassins. Why, you’re not planning to assassinate Caesar, are you?” His voice was mocking, but his dark eyes were serious.
“What’s happening?” Agrippa asked.
Juba’s eyes lingered on mine for a moment, then he turned and said pointedly, “I am simply warning the queen’s children that in Rome, many things will be different. I think they understand.” He smiled, but his words were directed at me.
The augur raised his hands to the sky.
“Well? What is it?” Octavian snapped.
“The signs are favorable,” the priest announced, and Octavian exhaled audibly. “Neptune blesses this voyage.”
Agrippa passed the augur a bag of coins. Then the three men escorted Octavian down the dock before I dared to whisper, “He’s heard everything.”
“There’s nothing we’ve said that’s been suspicious. Just questions.”
But Juba had looked into my eyes and known what I wanted to do. Octavian had murdered Antyllus and Caesarion. He had given my mother and father no choice but to take their own lives. Even Charmion and Iras were dead. After eleven months, it still hurt to swallow when I thought of them all resting in their marble sarcophagi inside my mother’s mausoleum. Seven days after Octavian’s speech in the Gymnasium, their funeral processions had wound through the streets of Alexandria, collecting so many mourners that the Roman army had needed every last soldier to keep order in the city. Now everyone was gone. Everything but a few chests of silks had been taken from us. And when my brothers each turned fifteen, what would happen to them? Death was inevitable, perhaps preferable to what we would suffer in Rome. And if death was inevitable.…
We watched the soldiers as they tried to force a horse from the sand onto the wooden dock. The horse wouldn’t move. The men tried whistling to it. Octavian slapped its rear, and when one of the soldiers raised a whip to beat it, Ptolemy covered his eyes.
“Stop!” Alexander shouted. He crossed the pier and approached the men. “He’s just afraid of the water,” Alexander told them.
Some of the soldiers laughed. A fat soldier shouted to the one with the whip, “So beat the horse until it moves.”
“No!” Alexander said angrily. “He still won’t move.”
The man with the whip crossed his arms over his chest. “Why not?”
The fat one sneered. “Are you going to listen to an eleven-year-old boy?”
“He should,” I said quickly. “He knows horses better than anyone else.”
“So why won’t the horse move?” Octavian demanded.
Alexander’s hair was wet with sea spray, and in the bright summer sun his skin had turned to bronze. He was handsome, and some of the soldiers were leering. “Because he isn’t the lead horse. My father trained the lead. If you bring him, he’ll board your ship, and if the others are watching, they will, too.”
Agrippa turned to look at the herd of horses shifting nervously on the shore. “Which one is the leader?”
My brother pointed to a large bay mount. “Heraclius.”
Octavian glanced at my brother. “Fine. Then bring him up.”
Alexander walked confidently toward the pack, and the soldiers’ murmuring died down. Upon seeing him, the horse immediately lowered his head, sniffing my brother’s outstretched hand for the treats he normally brought. My brother whispered something into Heraclius’s ear, stroking his wide flank with one hand as he took the horse’s reins in the other. Slowly, whispering all the time, he walked onto the dock, and Heraclius followed obediently.
“You can bring the others now,” Alexander said, and when none of the horses put up a struggle, Octavian studied my brother.
“I remember your father was a great man for horses,” he remarked.
Alexander looked away. “Yes.”
Octavian nodded. “Has everything been loaded from the mausoleum?” he asked Juba, and my father’s memory returned to dust.
“Every last talent.”
But the soldier with the paunch squinted in the sun. “Not the girl’s necklace. And what about the children’s crowns?”
“They’re simple bands of pearls,” Juba said testily. “Perhaps you’d like to take their clothes as well?”
“The children may keep whatever they’re wearing. I want to leave,” Octavian announced.
Alexander reached out to take my arm, but I stepped away.
“This might be the last time we ever see the Museion,” I said. Or the palace, or the Temple of Isis and Serapis. “I’ve never sketched Alexandria from the harbor,” it occurred to me.
“We’ll be back,” my brother said sadly. He looked beyond the water to the city of marble that had been built over hundreds of years by the Ptolemies. In the brilliant sunshine, the city rose like a blinding white beacon, home to the greatest minds in the world.
“I want to stay.”
“Octavian is already on board,” my brother warned.
“And who cares what Octavian is doing?”
“You should.” Alexander, always the practical one, added bitterly, “you’ve seen how it’s been these past months. Nothing happens for us now without his say.” He took little Ptolemy’s hand in his. But I remained on the pier, and only turned away when Agrippa said that it was time. He led the three of us to our cabin, the same one Alexander and I h
ad shared when our mother took us to Thebes every winter.
“This door is always to remain open,” Agrippa instructed. “Do not close it. Do not lock it.”
“Even when we sleep?” Alexander asked.
“Even then. If you would like food, you may ask me. If you are sick, go to the railing, but never disturb Caesar for anything.”
Our room faced onto an open courtyard where Octavian was already reclining on a couch, scribbling across a scroll with his reed pen.
“Caesar spends most of his day writing,” Agrippa explained. “There is never a time when he isn’t busy. If he wants to hear noise, he will ask for the harp.”
Alexander and I both looked to Ptolemy. How would a seven-year-old child keep silent on a two-month voyage? And we weren’t even allowed to shut the door.
I sat on one of the cedar beds and pulled Ptolemy onto my lap. “You are going to have to be very quiet on this ship. Do you understand?”
He nodded, and his curls bounced up and down. “Will Mother be coming?”
I looked at Alexander.
“No, Mother won’t be coming,” he said softly. “Don’t you remember?”
Two small lines creased Ptolemy’s brow. “She’s with Father, in Elysium?”
“That’s right.” Alexander seated himself on the second bed, and we avoided each other’s gaze. Outside, Juba and Agrippa joined Octavian in the courtyard as the ship wrenched away from the port. With the door open, we could hear their conversation.
“It’s finally over,” Juba said, reclining on a separate couch.
“It’s never over.” Octavian looked up from his scroll. “Only the dead have seen the end of war.”
“Then perhaps Plato was wrong, and you’ll forge something different. Who in Rome is going to challenge you now?”
Octavian smiled. “Antony did me a favor by getting rid of Cicero. He taught the Senate a powerful lesson. Seneca and the rest of the old beards will keep their silence.”
“For now,” Agrippa warned.
“Yes,” Octavian said, after a pause. “The danger is no longer with the old men. I must restore the prestige of the Senate. I must make equestrians’ sons want to be senators again.”
“That would mean convincing them to come out of the whorehouses first,” Agrippa said dryly.
“Then I will close the whorehouses!” Octavian flushed. “They are breeding grounds for rebellion.”
“And you will have a different kind of rebellion on your hands,” Juba said. “The boys visit them because they have nothing better to do. But if you increase the Senate’s pay and power, they will think you are bringing back the Republic and they’ll leave the whorehouses on their own. That was what Caesar forgot, and what Antony never knew.”
The three of them looked into our cabin, and Octavian beckoned to Alexander with his finger.
“Me?” my brother asked.
Octavian nodded, and my brother stood.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
“He wants me to go.”
While Alexander crossed the short distance between our room and where Octavian sat, Ptolemy cried sharply, “You’re hurting me.” I was holding him so tightly I was crushing his chest.
“Tell me about your father,” Octavian said.
Alexander looked back at me, wondering what kind of game Octavian was playing.
“He loved my mother,” Alexander replied.
“And horses.”
Alexander raised his chin, and the long white chiton he was wearing flapped in the warm sea breeze. “Yes. He taught me to ride as soon as I could walk.”
“They say your father held races every day of the week. Is that true?”
Alexander grinned. “Yes. There was nothing he loved more than the races.”
“Even his kingdom,” Octavian remarked, and I saw Alexander flinch. “Tell me about your sister. Did he teach her to ride as well?”
My brother’s voice was not so bright when he replied. “No. She sketches.”
Octavian frowned.
“Drawings of buildings and temples,” he explained.
“Bring one to me.”
Alexander returned to our cabin, and I shook my head angrily.
“Never!” I hissed. “Didn’t you hear him? He thinks our father squandered away his kingdom.”
“And what did our father like more than races and wine?”
I thought of my father’s last request, and sat back among the cushions.
“He asked, Selene. What if this is a test? Please. Give him the one overlooking Alexandria. The one you drew at the Temple of Serapis.”
Ptolemy looked up at me with his wide blue eyes, waiting for me to tell him to get my book.
“Selene,” Alexander whispered nervously, “they’re waiting.”
It was true. Beneath the potted palms of the courtyard, the three men were watching us, though so long as we kept our voices low they couldn’t hear what we were saying. “Pass me my leather bag.”
Ptolemy scurried across the bed for my bag. He handed it to me as if it were a rare and precious stone, and I took out the leather-bound book of sketches, with its title neatly penned by Charmion in gold ink. Her father had been a great architect in Egypt. When she was young he had taught her the beauty of building and the precise penmanship required of architects, and then she had passed these abilities on to me.
“Hurry,” Alexander implored.
I flipped through the pages and unfolded a loose sheaf. It was an image of Alexandria: her roads, her temples, the palaces that spread like the feathery wings of a heron across the Lochias Promontory. Charmion had taught me to pay attention to even the smallest details, and I had captured the sea foam as it broke against the Lighthouse, and the still faces of the marble caryatids that lined the Canopic Way.
Alexander snatched the parchment from my hand and returned with it to the sunny courtyard. Agrippa saw it first, then Juba, and by the time it made its way to Octavian, all three men had fallen silent. Octavian pushed back his wide straw hat to see it better.
“Your sister drew this?”
“When she was nine, from the Temple of Serapis.”
Octavian ran his finger over the drawing, and I didn’t need to lean over his shoulder to know what he was seeing. His eyes would be drawn first to the Lighthouse, whose four corners were crowned by bronze images of the sea god Poseidon. Then he would see the great statue of Helios, copied from the colossal masterpiece in Rhodes and straddling the Heptastadion. From there he would see the Museion, the towering obelisks taken from Aswan, the theater, the public gardens, and the dozens of temples dedicated to our gods.
“Your sister has great talent. May I keep this?”
From the cabin, I gave a little gasp. “No!”
The men turned, and Alexander said quickly, “She’s talking to Ptolemy. Of course you may keep this.”
I pressed my nails into my palms, a nervous habit I had picked up from Charmion, and Ptolemy asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Our brother is giving away my things.”
His little features were bunched up in confusion. “But we already gave away all of our things from the palace.”
“No,” I replied, barely containing my rage. “They were taken. And now Octavian wants this as well.”
When Alexander returned, I couldn’t bear to look at him.
“What’s the matter with you?” my brother whispered harshly, pushing back the hair that escaped from his diadem. “We’re not in Alexandria anymore.”
“No, because the man you are giving gifts to murdered our family!”
“Do you think if our father had won he would have kept anyone alive? Even Octavian’s heirs?”
“He has no heirs! Just a girl.”
“Then if he did?”
“So we’re alive! For now. And only because Octavian doesn’t want to parade three stinking corpses through the streets of Rome. Wait until the Triumph is over,” I warned. “Antyllus was murdered at the
feet of Caesar’s statue, and Caesarion was beheaded. What do you think will happen to us?”
“Exactly what he said. We will be given away in marriage.”
“And how is that better than death? To marry a Roman?”
“Our father was Roman.”
“Perhaps by blood, but in every way that counted he was Greek. The way he dressed, the gods he worshipped, the way he spoke—”
“Not on the battlefield.”
I looked up, and Alexander’s light brown eyes were blazing.
“You didn’t see him in the stadiums,” he said, “preparing for battle or racing chariots. All he ever spoke was Latin.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I lie? Our father was a Roman, even if he never put on a toga.” When I didn’t say anything, Alexander shook his head. “You are very stubborn.”
“And you are very trusting,” I said accusingly.
“Why shouldn’t I trust? We have no other choice!”
“Stop it! Stop it!” Ptolemy cried. He put his hands on his ears and screeched, “Stop fighting!”
Octavian had gone back to his work, but Juba looked up from his couch.
“You see what you’ve done?” Alexander said to me, casting a look over his shoulder. “Agrippa warned us to be silent.”
“Ptolemy, we aren’t fighting,” I said comfortingly. But he had put his head down on my pillow, and I could see that his pale skin was flushed. I placed the back of my hand on his cheek. “Alexander, he’s hot.”
My brother crossed the cabin to feel Ptolemy’s brow. “He probably needs sleep.”
But even though Ptolemy slept for much of the next few days, his cheeks remained flushed. Alexander and I devised quiet games to play with him, even while he lay on the pillows of his bed, but by the third day, he was too tired even to play.
“There’s something the matter with him,” I said. “It isn’t normal.”
“It’s just a fever,” Alexander replied. “We had it in Thebes. It’ll break with enough water and rest.”
So we brought Ptolemy fresh juices and fruit. And while he lay, I sketched my mother’s thalamegos. Alexander read from my mother’s library, scrolls she had chosen for the ship herself. But it hurt me too much to read them, and whenever he brought them back to our cabin I turned away so I wouldn’t have to smell the faint scent of her jasmine on the papyrus.
The Egyptian Royals Collection Page 83