Cleopatra's Moon

by Vicky Alvear Shecter

  “You must understand,” Charmion said, her tall, willowy body bending to sit on a marble bench. I sat down next to her. “Your mother has been planning a way to save all our lives, but she only today discovered that one of the kings of Arabia destroyed everything.”

  I looked at her, not comprehending.

  “Let me back up. Octavianus, as you know, is on his way to capture Alexandria.” She paused, searching my face. “Did you know?”

  I shook my head. This was a surprise, as I had thought that the worst was over. After all, Mother was home safe.

  “It appears Octavianus has not come after us right away because he intends on sweeping through all of the kingdoms and provinces of the East to bring them under his sole control first. Then he will attack.”

  I swallowed, trying to accept the idea that we were in terrible danger. “Why isn’t Father stopping him?” I asked.

  “He cannot. He went to Libya to marshal his land forces, only to discover his general in command there — indeed, all of his generals and legions — defected to Octavianus. He has no army left except his forces here in Alexandria.”

  All his men abandoned him? Gods! Poor Tata. “Is he all right? Where is he now?”

  “He is still in Libya. But although your father cannot fight, your mother has not given up hope. She planned to save us all by sailing to India. King Porus agreed to provide protection.”

  “You mean we would leave Alexandria and Egypt to Octavianus?” I stood up. Impossible! “Mother would never abandon Egypt. I would never do so!”

  “Not ‘abandon,’ no. See, it was all part of the plan. She hoped that with the House of Ptolemy out of Alexandria, Octavianus would be merciful and not destroy the city. Then, with sufficient money and time, she would attempt to negotiate an agreement with him — perhaps to stay in exile and allow Caesarion to rule in her stead.”

  For Mother, for all of us, to be exiled from our beloved Egypt — unimaginable! To leave it for Rome to pick over like a vulture? I shuddered and sat back down heavily. Until that moment, I had not understood the severity of our situation.

  “So why can we not do what she planned?”

  “King Malchus of Nabatea burned her entire fleet. We could not sail on the Mediterranean, which Octavianus now controls. So your mother had her fleet pulled overland toward the Red Sea. We would sail to India from there. But the Nabateans of Arabia — hoping to score points with Octavianus — intercepted the fleet and destroyed it all. Your mother only learned today that her escape is burning on the desert sands.”

  “But Octavianus declared war on Mother, right? So if she abdicates the throne, then he will leave us alone, yes?”

  Charmion snorted. “Octavianus wants only two things: the death of your father and Egypt’s wealth. Greedy Romans have been waiting for the chance to seize Egypt for decades. And now he has the excuse to do just that. So you see, when Hekate attacked your mother … Well, it was as if Bastet herself was smiting her.”

  I shivered as a sense of dread sunk into my bones. We sat in silence, the little oil lamp’s flame sputtering with the occasional sea breeze. I did not know what to say.

  As the sky lightened, I turned to see a young gazelle, mouth full of a bright red hibiscus flower, enter our alcove. The tame animal stopped at the sight of us.

  “Don’t move,” whispered Charmion. “Amisi,” she called in a soft voice. “Do not be afraid. We will not hurt you.”

  “Amisi?” The Egyptian word for flower struck me as a strange name for a gazelle.

  Charmion pulled another hibiscus from the bush next to her and held it out to the timid creature. “Yes,” she murmured, smiling. “We call him that because that is all he eats. Amisi has such an appetite for flowers, he has been known to follow the flower gatherers straight into the palace, munching all the while from their baskets.”

  I smiled at the image. Amisi, true to his name, came toward Charmion’s outstretched hand. I watched as the first light of the sun, streaming through the palm fronds, lit his fur, a beautiful desert-sand color separated from his white belly by a stripe as dark as ebony.

  What will happen to you, little creature, when the Romans invade? I wondered, swallowing the tightness in my throat. What will happen to all of us?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In the Twenty-first Year of My Mother’s Reign

  In My Eleventh Year (30 BCE)

  After being betrayed by almost every Roman he knew, Father returned to Alexandria a broken man. He seemed brittle, spent, his muscles rangy rather than voluptuous, his curls shot through with gray rather than shining with dark luster. My heartbroken tata was a general without an army, a Roman without Rome.

  Tata had little time for or interest in us, his children. I ached for his loud laughter and outrageous game playing, but he took to spending whole days by himself in a small house on Pharos he called the Timonium. I worried more about Tata’s withdrawal into himself than Octavianus’s impending invasion, which seemed somehow unreal. Everybody talked about it, but nothing ever happened. My parents’ distress was more immediate and troubling. Would I ever see them smile again?

  Months passed, and the seas closed for the winter. Still no sign of Octavianus. My family and all of Alexandria turned inward, like a lotus closing its petals at night. I remember little about that winter except the quiet meals and the distracted, almost helpless look on my parents’ faces.

  But as spring approached, Mother and Father seemed happy again. I did not know then that it was the happiness of the resigned, of those who had given themselves up to their fates.

  In late spring, Caesarion convinced my parents that he was due a manhood ceremony. After all, hadn’t he ruled Egypt during their absence? He deserved to be seen as the man he was and not just a boy-king.

  My family — and all of Alexandria — embraced our young king’s ascension to manhood as a symbol of hope for the future. Caesarion was a good king. And a good king deserved an even better celebration, which Tata held for him in the Roman fashion, with a raucous, wine-soaked feast in the name of the Roman god Liber and his consort, Libera, the gods of inebriation and fertility.

  “I propose a toast!” Tata called at the feast that night. The large banquet room erupted in cheers. Father looked less haggard than he had when he first returned from Actium, but a tiredness still emanated from him, even at his most jovial. “A toast!” he repeated, standing a bit unsteadily, his face flushed and sweaty in the flickering torchlight. I looked at his hands and saw no Eye of Horus ring. When had he stopped wearing it? Was that why Octavianus had won?

  Father held his wine goblet aloft, waiting for everyone to join him. Ptolly danced to the music of panpipes and lyres, holding his little cup of watered wine over his head. With his mischievous grin, all he needed were horns to look like a baby satyr.

  I turned, searching for my cup. Had someone taken it by accident? I did not wish to bring ill luck upon Caesarion by not toasting him. I tried to catch the eye of a servant as Father began his speech. Where was my cup? And where was Zosima?

  Father must have finished speaking, for the room erupted in applause and people began to drink in Caesarion’s honor. I needed to add my blessing! I was about to take Alexandros’s cup from him when a servant shoved a goblet of wine into my hand. Quickly, I brought the cup to my lips.

  I heard a crack and felt a stinging pain on my cheek and jaw. I yelped in surprise as dark liquid arced out of my chalice and I fell over. What had happened?

  The room grew quiet. Mother stood over me, and the rage and fury on her face made my blood run cold. “You stupid girl,” she hissed. “Do you not know better than to take a cup of untasted wine?”

  Mother had slapped me — and the wine cup out of my hand — so hard I had crashed to the ground. I held my cheek and scrambled up, straightening my dress. The banquet room hushed as everyone stared at me, and my cheeks burned with shame. Mother signaled her royal guards to find the servant boy who had given me the cup. Apparently, he had raced o
ut of the room as soon as he thrust it into my hands. The room roiled with whispers and murmurs. Within moments, the guards returned, dragging a struggling, barefoot Egyptian youth to face Mother.

  “Was it poisoned?” she asked the boy in a slow, dangerous tone. He shook his head.

  Mother stared at him. “Then drink it,” she commanded, signaling for the cup to be picked up from the floor. “There is enough there for a sip or two.”

  The boy’s eyes grew wide with fear.

  The room became so silent, you could hear the leather of the soldiers’ cuirasses creaking as they fought to hold the now-panicked boy.

  “Drink it,” the queen said again. Somebody placed the cup that had flown out of my hand in front of the boy.

  A third royal guard took a dagger and held it at the boy’s neck. “You heard the queen,” he said. “Either drink this now, or I fill the goblet with your blood when I slit your throat.”

  The servant’s black eyes blazed with resentment as he put his mouth to the cup. The soldier tipped it all the way back, forcing the liquid out the sides of the boy’s mouth, like tiny rivulets of blood. When he removed the cup, the boy turned his face in my direction and locked his eyes on mine. He mumbled something at me in old Egyptian, and I shrank back. What awful punishment had he called the gods to rain down on me?

  Within minutes, the boy began to sweat and convulse. The poison must have been very strong to work in such a small amount. His muscles tensed and seized, and the guards dragged him out of the banquet room to die in the kitchens. The last I saw of him were his twitching bare feet, the soles caked with grime.

  “Danger averted!” Father boomed in a jolly voice. “The queen, as always, the Divine Protector of her children and her people.” He turned to her and lifted his cup, his eyes flicking to me for a moment.

  The guests lifted their cups to Mother and yelled, “Hail the Savior of Egypt!”

  I understood the message from Father. Act as if nothing happened. I smiled and waved to show my fortitude in the face of danger, and sat down. But inside, I trembled. After everybody had drained another cup, I snuck a look at Mother and saw her talking into Charmion’s ear. I was seized with a sense of unreality. Had someone really just tried to kill me?

  Alexandros leaned over Iotape. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You did not drink any of the wine, did you?”

  I shook my head, my throat tight. Isis, please do not let me lose control now, I begged. I took deep breaths to keep the tears at bay. I looked back at Mother and saw her signaling someone behind me. Then she turned and smiled at a guest who had come to talk to her.

  Zosima took me by the arm. “Come,” she whispered in my ear. “Let us go back to your chamber.”

  At the same moment, Father lifted his cup again toward Caesarion, who sat with the sons of Mother’s most loyal advisers. “Let us make another toast to Liber, the god of drink and sex!” he said. “Now that you are old enough to enjoy both!”

  The guests whistled and made catcalls. Caesarion, also flushed, held up his cup and in a boastful voice said, “You’re too late on both counts, stepfather. Especially sex!”

  Tata threw back his head and laughed. “Gods! Well, I hope not just with your companions!”

  The banquet room erupted in loud laughter, cheers, and whistles. How could they go on as if nothing happened? I thought. Zosima led me around the crowded dining couches and out of the banquet room.

  “Sit,” she said, once we were in my chamber. “You are all right now. There is nothing to fear.”

  Fear? How could I explain that I was not afraid? I was humiliated, confused, angry. But not afraid. Or at least not yet.

  Olympus, Mother’s royal physician, walked into our chamber. “Did any of the wine touch your lips?” he boomed.

  “N-no. I do not think so.”

  “Well, we must cleanse your system as a precaution anyway.”

  “Not the leeches!” I gasped. I hated that treatment! I shivered at the very idea.

  “No, something that works faster. An emetic or purgative. Actually, both.” When Olympus saw my face, he added, “This is merely a safeguard. Your mother was very clear about it. She wants to be sure not even an atomos of poison entered your system.”

  I felt slightly relieved that Mother cared enough to drag her beloved physician out of bed, but not much. “I swear. No wine touched my lips!”

  Olympus ignored me. “Open your mouth and let me smell your breath,” he said. I did as I was told. He furrowed his brow, muttering about humors.

  “What was the poison?” Zosima asked.

  “I am not sure. I could not tell from smelling the cup. I will check the boy next to see what I can learn from the form of his death.”

  I shuddered. He turned back to me, patting my knee. “Well, I’m sorry, child. You are going to have a very uncomfortable time of it soon.” He looked at Zosima. “Actually, I should be apologizing to you, should I not?”

  Not long after taking Olympus’s purging potion, I wanted nothing more than to have died of the poisoned wine. At least that would have been over quickly. The potion worked on both my stomach and bowels. Whether it was the royal physician’s treatment or the poison or a combination of the two, the violence of my reaction to the medicine put me into the Sleep That Is Not Quite Death.

  My ba-soul traveled to strange places. Once I found myself alone in the Soma, the sacred Tomb of Alexander. A torch flared, and I saw Amut the Destroyer, the crocodile-headed, lion-bellied, hippo-legged monster, leering at me from across the room, its sharp teeth stained and dripping red. Amut, I knew, devoured the hearts of the damned, keeping them from entering the Endless Afterlife and reuniting with all whom they once loved.

  “Is that the poisoned wine?” I asked as red liquid oozed from its mouth in thick, goopy rivulets.

  The monster chuckled in an awful, growling way. “No, little queen, it is my mouth watering.” Such a stench of putrid decay came from its open mouth that I gagged and retched.

  In another journey, I found myself lying on the stone floor of the tombs of all my ancestors. The air smelled of dust and decay, and I shivered in the chill. I looked up to see Anubis, his black fur gleaming, his gold-tipped ears twitching. Had I called him? But I did not remember using Amunet’s spell.

  I found I had no fear as I stared up at the jackal head of the magnificent shining god. He was so beautiful, in fact, I realized I was smiling at him. My blood ran cold, though, when I saw Amut emerge from the darkness beside him.

  Anubis looked down upon me. “Ah, poor little one,” he said. “There are many from your line of kings soon to come.”

  I sat up in a panic. “What do you mean? What are you saying?” I begged, my voice echoing in the dark, cavernous tomb.

  Amut grinned. “Oh, tsk, tsk,” the monster growled. “Questioning a god. Where is your respect? Surely I shall have your heart now.” It smacked its lips.

  I put my hands over my heart. “No! You cannot have it! I have done nothing wrong. And I am not dead!” But did I know that? Perhaps my ba-soul had indeed flown to the Land of the West.

  “I am being called,” Anubis muttered, lifting his snout to sniff the air.

  “Do not leave me,” I cried. I felt safe in the presence of the God of Death. It was Amut who terrified me.

  Anubis turned back to me. “Remember,” he said. “You must call upon me to save the sons of Egypt.”

  But who was going to save me — the daughter of Egypt? Before I could say anything, he blinked his great dark eyes and began fading into black smoke.

  Amut lingered. “I must follow my master,” it growled, puffing its hot, putrid breath into my ear. “But not without first leaving you a gift.” It gave a gruesome chuckle. “I have awoken the souls of your murderous ancestors whose hearts I have devoured. The poor things could not get into happy Aaru. They are here, and it is you who will pay for their sins. Do not let them touch you now!”

  Amut laughed, the sound fading slowly away. I hear
d the murmur of voices, men and women — some angry, some moaning. I curled up tighter as terror made breathing difficult. How many of my ancestors had failed Anubis’s tests? I thought of the early Ptolemies and the many murders they committed in the name of power, of the rumors that Mother had murdered her own brother and sister in a furious bid to keep her throne. I shook my head. It couldn’t be true.

  But I could not deny the truth of my history lessons. My royal line teemed with murderers, liars, and backstabbers. According to my Greek upbringing, we, their descendants, would face punishments for their sins. The murmurs and voices grew louder, and I trembled at the unfairness of it. Why would the gods punish me for crimes committed generations ago? I pressed my face into the ground in terror, breathing in the powder of my ancestors’ bones.

  Isis, please keep the restless, devouring spirits away, I begged. Still the avenging spirits continued moving toward me. “Isis, please,” I pleaded out loud. “Save me!” Hadn’t Amunet called her my “savior”?

  I felt it before I saw it — a warm, brilliant golden light. The Goddess in all her glory had come. She had come! My heart soared at the sight of her. At first she floated over me, looking like Mother had — gleaming in gold — during so many religious festivals. Then her features melted into the face of the Isis statue on Pharos as she stared out to sea.

  “Isis, Mother of All,” I whispered, “keep the angry spirits away from me.”

  She continued staring into the distance. Why was she ignoring me? “Are you punishing me?” I asked.