Cleopatra's Moon

by Vicky Alvear Shecter

  “Really?” he asked, squinting up at me. “I did not picture you as an Epicurean.”

  “I’m not. I’m just reading about it. But why do you say that?”

  “Well, we both know you are not a Stoic.” He smiled. “I picture you more as a follower of Socrates.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for one, you never stop asking questions. And sometimes,” he laughed, “those questions are as annoying as a gadfly!”

  He thought of me as a gadfly? He must have seen the expression on my face because he pushed up from his elbows. “I meant no insult, Cleopatra Selene.”

  Only Juba and my brothers still used my full name, which I appreciated more than he knew. In the awkward silence that followed, he picked up a wineskin that he’d had draped over his shoulder. “And to prove my goodwill, I will offer you the first sip of our exercise wine.”

  “Exercise wine?” I laughed.

  He smiled, his white teeth gleaming. “Yes, exercise wine. Mostly water with a little bit of wine and honey for energy. Here.” He removed the top and indicated he would pour some in my mouth. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. I felt the sunlight on my face. The smell of leather from the wineskin. Warm liquid pooling in my mouth. The sweet tang of honeyed wine. I swallowed slowly.

  He poured some for himself. I watched him close his eyes and open his mouth to receive the liquid, then bring his lips together, throat moving as he swallowed. He opened his eyes and met mine.

  “What?” he asked, smiling. “Did I spill some down my chin or something?”

  He was so close. The sun so warm, the air so heavy with the sweet scent of citron blossoms. I leaned over without thinking and touched my lips to his, wanting to taste the mixture of sun and wine on them, wanting to taste him. I had never kissed anyone before.

  I felt him stiffen, then pull away. “Selene,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “You cannot … You are just a child.”

  So that was how he saw me — as both an annoying gadfly and a silly child. Mortified, I scrambled to my feet.

  “Wait! Cleopatra Selene, I did not mean to …”

  I didn’t hear anything else he said. I ran as fast as I could, past our complex and into the public gardens that Caesarion’s tata had built for the people of Rome. I knew it was dangerous for a girl to wander the gardens unattended, but I wanted to get as far as possible from everybody and everything I knew.

  When I could run no more, I collapsed under a cypress. Why had I done that? Why had I kissed him? I would never be able to look him in the eye again. I groaned with shame and put my head down on my knees. I had embarrassed myself and embarrassed him.

  Worse, I had learned something about myself that cut to the quick. I was not as beautiful, not as compelling, not as enticing as I had secretly hoped I would grow to be. Instead, the daughter of the charismatic, irresistible Cleopatra VII was an awkward, angry “gadfly” who repelled men. I had not only disappointed myself but, I realized with despair, had Mother lived, I probably would have disappointed her too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  In the weeks that followed, I avoided all places where I might run into Juba. I could not bear the thought of him looking upon me with pity. To my relief, he must have been trying to avoid me too, for we went a long time without seeing each other.

  Sometimes, when reading in the main garden, I would find Marcellus staring at me as he spoke privately to one of Octavianus’s endless petitioners. He’d smile and wink over the heads of the invariably balding, portly, toga-swaddled supplicants. Sometimes he even came and sat beside me on the marble bench under the shaded canopy.

  “You are always reading, Selene,” he commented one day. “You must tell me what you find so fascinating.”

  I shrugged, feeling both delighted and embarrassed that he had noticed me at all. His kindness was like a balm. Perhaps I was not so hideous, I thought, if handsome Marcellus looked at me without turning into stone.

  Still, Juba’s rejection forced me to reassess how I might or might not be like Mother. I could accept that I was not as beautiful and compelling as she was as long as I reminded myself that I had her intelligence and drive. Ultimately, that would serve me better as ruler, wouldn’t it?

  I grew impatient remembering Amunet’s orders to wait. Surely, I thought, there had to be some movement toward bringing us back to Egypt by now! Then I wondered if I had been too passive. Mother, after all, had always acted boldly and swiftly. Perhaps they awaited some sign from me.

  It was time to take action. Unfortunately, I didn’t know where to begin. Talking to those who worshipped Isis would have been the natural route, but Octavianus had destroyed all of the Isis temples in the city and banned all worship of the Goddess within city walls. Most of the followers of Isis in Rome traveled to the temple outside Capua to honor the Goddess. I could find no reason to travel to Capua that would not raise eyebrows or suspicions, so I decided to do the next best thing. I would send a message to the Capuan High Priest or Priestess of Isis.

  But Zosima would hear none of it when I asked her to convey the message for me.

  “Absolutely not!” she hissed, eyes wide with horror at my suggestion. “Octavianus has had every follower of Isis in this household beaten or purged! I will not give him an excuse to kill us, child, and I forbid you from pursuing it as well.”

  I did not know which made me angrier — that she called me “child” or that she treated me as one. Well, if she wouldn’t do it, I would ask someone else!

  The Goddess’s emphasis on salvation and love attracted large numbers of the poor and enslaved. Despite Octavianus’s harsh treatment, surely some of the household slaves still followed the Goddess, even if they kept it a secret. I began taking long walks around the compound, looking for any sign of an Isis worshipper among the bustling slaves. As I had always been known to “wander,” nobody thought it odd. Or at least I hoped so.

  Once, one of the laundry slaves watched me carefully as I meandered among piles of clothing. The shaded outdoor courtyard reeked of vinegar, stale urine for bleaching, and strange-smelling solvents so harsh they made my eyes water. When I looked at the young laundry slave, she gave a slight bow of the head. Did that mean she knew who I was? Might she help me?

  In a casual way, I drifted toward her. Her eyes widened in fear. She looked down, suddenly fascinated by a mud stain on a tunic that she had been scrubbing. She did not look up at me again, even when I stood over her.

  “Tell me,” I said quietly. “Are you a follower of the Goddess of Egypt?”

  She shook her head. “It is forbidden,” she whispered. “By Caesar’s command.”

  “So you are not …”

  “No! I am not!” she said in a hoarse whisper.

  I sighed and began turning away when she added, “But I know someone who is. I will send him to you.”

  My heart thudded in excitement. “Yes? I … I thank you,” I whispered.

  Her lips curled upward slightly. “It is an honor to serve you, Daughter of Ra,” she breathed.

  For weeks afterward, I searched the faces of every servant or slave who passed my way. But nobody approached me; nobody ever made any kind of contact. Had that girl lied just to get me away from her?

  I was wandering on the outer edge of one of the side gardens when I spotted a young, sweat-soaked worker carrying a large basket of blooms from the outer garden.

  “Pardon me, young domina,” he said, holding up what I could now see was a collection of bloodred roses. “Would you like to smell their perfume?”

  I paused. Roses were the flowers of the Goddess. Was this an innocent request or did it have some meaning?

  The young man took off his floppy, wide-brimmed hat. As I approached, he casually scratched at a grimy circlet of linen around his wrist. He looked at me, then down at his wrist again.

  I followed his eyes. There! Underneath the bunched-up fabric was a tiny black tattoo of the Knot of Isis, just like the sacred amulet that Mother had given me
. My heart lurched with recognition and excitement. He covered the tiny mark and said, “Flowers fit for a goddess, yes?”

  He had the fair, freckled skin and rust-colored hair of a Gaul or Celt. I wondered if he had been born a slave or captured in Gaul or in Britannia. Yet he was a devotee of Isis! Truly the Goddess worked in mysterious ways.

  I bent my head toward the blooms and sniffed deeply. As I reached for one, the young man let go of the whole basket. Flowers scattered everywhere.

  The freedman in charge of the gardens eyed him with irritation. I dropped to my knees to help gather the blooms as the young man whispered, “The Priestess of Capua has not forgotten you. Plans are underw —”

  Suddenly, the young man grunted and toppled over. The freedman had kicked him. “You clumsy oaf!” he yelled. “You do not let a noble help you clean up your mess!” He turned to me. “Forgive this untrained idiot, young mistress,” he said.

  I stood up quickly, angry at the young man’s mistreatment, and opened my mouth to complain, but the young gardener shoved a handful of blooms toward me so quickly, a few petals shot into the air. Small trickles of blood from the thorns he had grasped oozed down the side of his dirt-caked palm.

  “Please, take these as an offering to the Bona Dea,” he pleaded. “May the Great Goddess forgive my trespass.”

  Smart boy, I thought. Telling me to make an offering to the Bona Dea — the good goddess of Rome — sounded innocent enough. But we both knew he meant Isis.

  The overseer grunted in approval. I took the flowers gingerly and nodded my thanks. My heart felt like a runaway stallion at the chariot races, but I walked toward our wing with a studied slowness.

  Finally, it has begun, I chanted to myself, barely able to contain my excitement. The Priestess of Capua knows I am ready. It has begun!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “There you are,” Zosima cried as I returned from the rose garden. “Where have you been?” She sighed. “Between worrying about you and Ptolly, it is a wonder I have any hair left.”

  I turned. “What do you mean? Why were you worrying about Ptolly?”

  “He took sick early this morning with a fever.” As a rule, my brothers and I were inordinately healthy, but all fevers were a cause for concern. “They have taken him to the sickroom in Livia’s house,” she continued. “Livia’s doctor is taking care of him.”

  I dropped the roses and ran, a chill traveling down my spine. Why was Ptolly in Livia’s sickroom? Was she up to something? Could poison cause a fever? And even if it couldn’t, would she use his fever as an opportunity to hurt him? After her failed execution attempt at her husband’s Triumph, I had assumed Livia had decided that the risk of exposure was too great — that hurting us was not worth the effort. Had she just been biding her time, waiting for the right moment to strike, aiming at the youngest and weakest of us?

  When I burst into the sickroom, I discovered Ptolly asleep, his face pale and sweating. Octavia sat across from him, staring into his closed eyes. She looked up when I entered.

  “How is he?” I asked.

  Octavia looked haunted, tormented even. “What is wrong?” I asked more urgently, trying but failing to keep the panic out of my voice.

  Her face cleared as she rearranged her expression into one of mild concern. She even tried to smile. “Some sort of fever that came on suddenly,” she whispered. “I brought him some medicine.” She held up a clay drinking cup as if she were toasting me.

  “Should we wake him to administer it?” I asked. If the medicine might help, why had she not given it to him yet?

  She smiled apologetically. “I cannot wake a sleeping child,” she whispered. “Isn’t Marcus so beautiful, so peaceful when he sleeps? He always did sleep deeply.”

  I realized I was not sure whether she was talking about Ptolly or Tata. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Did she think Ptolly was Father?

  “Should I … do you want me to wake him and give him his medicine?”

  She hesitated. “Yes, maybe you should do it.” But she did not move.

  The odd look on her face and the fact that we were near Livia’s rooms added to my unease. I remembered how very soon after arriving, I overheard one of the slaves claim that Livia grew poisonous plants by moonlight and that she would likely use one of her potions against us.

  “Who … who made up the medicine?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “Did Livia mix the tincture?”

  Never taking her eyes off Ptolly, Octavia answered, “No, I … yes. Livia mixed it by her own hand. She is quite an adept healer, did you know that?”

  I felt cold, then hot with fear. Could it be possible that Livia had ordered Ptolly moved near her medicus just for appearances, so it would look like she was taking special care of him when she was doing the opposite? Would she take advantage of his fever as an excuse to kill him so there would be fewer questions?

  “I will sit with him now,” I said. “Give me the medicine. I will make him drink it soon.”

  I held my hand out, willing her to give me the cup. She stood, still staring at him, then sighed. “Yes, I think it would be better if you administered it.” She ignored my hand and placed the cup on a low table as she walked out of the room. I waited for her footsteps to disappear down the hall, then rushed to the cup and sniffed it. I detected only the sweetness of honey over an earthy, rain-on-mud smell. But how could I tell if it was poisoned? What did poison smell like? Bitter or sweet? How would I know?

  Zosima stepped in after Octavia left. “How is … What are you doing?”

  I straightened. “Livia mixed this medicine,” I whispered.

  Her eyes grew wide. She understood my meaning — I had warned Zosima and my brothers well about Livia. Without saying a word, she took the cup and walked out of the room to dispose of it.

  Ptolly’s fever clung to him like a choking vine. I tried to get him moved to my cubiculum so I could watch him there, but word came from Livia that he was to stay in her quarters.

  “She does not want his illness spreading to the other children,” her lady announced. This, of course, only made me more suspicious. Did Livia want him under her roof so that she could harm him without witnesses?

  So I virtually lived by his side, taking breaks only when Zosima or Alexandros sat in my place. We surrounded him like multiheaded Cerberus guarding the gates of the underworld, making sure no potion or tincture mixed by Livia’s hands crossed his lips.

  Livia’s physician seemed competent enough. He referred to himself as an iatros, healer, instead of medicus, so we knew he was Greek. The Romans turned to the Greeks for everything of importance.

  “Look who I have brought!” I announced on the fifth day of Ptolly’s illness.

  “Sebi!” he cried when he saw his cat in my arms. My cat, not about to be left behind, followed. I did not know how Livia felt about our cats settling into her house, but I did not care. Sebi curled up at Ptolly’s side immediately, and I said a prayer to Bastet that, through our cats, the goddess would keep him safe from Livia too.

  The iatros came in soon after, holding a shallow wooden bowl filled with bloodsucking leeches, which he would use on Ptolly to balance his humors. I put my head down between my knees so I would not get sick when he placed the slimy creatures on Ptolly’s bare back. Ptolly laughed, despite his growing weakness.

  “You had better watch out, sister. Now that I know how much you hate these little bloodsuckers, I may sneak in your room at night and put some on you while you sleep!” he teased.

  “Don’t you dare!” I said, raising my head. “That is not funny and I will …” But I had to lower my head again at the sight of the glistening dark creatures leaving trails of slime on my little brother’s back.

  When I wasn’t with Ptolly, I took long walks through the various gardens and courtyards of the compound, hoping to find the young gardener with the Isis knot tattoo. I had heard nothing more from him or anybody else, and I found this odd — so odd that I began to wonder whether I
had dreamt the entire encounter.

  One afternoon, I forced myself to stroll around Octavianus’s peristylum, the open garden attached to his house, hoping I might find the mysterious young Celt there. Usually, I avoided any place where I might run into Octavianus, but I had tried every other garden in the network of estates.

  In the small marble impluvium, a white lotus floated in sparkling water. In a flash, I remembered the shimmering turquoise water in Mother’s secret rooftop pool, the joy of presenting her with a blue lotus. How Mother had smiled and taken an exaggerated sniff to please me. How she had reassured me — days before leaving for Actium — that all would be well …

  I shook my head at the memory, puzzled as to why my enemy would have a flower so closely associated with Egypt in his personal garden. I looked around at the proliferation of pots crowding the small space, many of which were filled with strange and exotic blooms and leaves.

  “Admiring our work, mistress?” the head gardener, the one who had kicked the Celt boy, asked.

  “Beautiful,” I answered stiffly.

  “This one comes from Spain.” He pointed to a bright pink flower, multilayered with white-ridged edges. “And that one comes from Gaul.” He indicated a thick stalk bearing yellow blooms in a tower formation.

  I understood then. Octavianus, through flowers, was showing off all the areas of the world he controlled, including Egypt. I sighed with irritation. But then I realized the head gardener might know something useful to me.

  “Where is the boy I saw picking roses last week?”

  The man laughed. “I have many boys who pick roses for me! Which one do you mean?”

  “He …” I was about to say he bore the Knot of Isis mark but quickly caught myself. “The Celt boy, the young man with freckles,” I began.

  “Now, why would you want to know that?” a voice boomed behind me, and I jumped.

  Marcellus. He grinned at my surprised expression. “I thought I saw a nymph gliding among the flowers and I was right!”