Cleopatra's Moon

by Vicky Alvear Shecter

  “It’s enough to make you never want to wear white again, isn’t it?” a voice said in my ear.

  I jumped. Juba! “How did you find me here?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Wasn’t too hard. I knew you were headed to the Subura.”

  “I’m surprised your lady friend let you leave her side so quickly.”

  He grinned. “It was easy enough. I told her that my slave could not get away with such insolence and that I needed to catch you so that I could beat you.” I must have looked surprised, for his expression changed. “A joke,” he said. “I do not beat slaves. Oh, and very nicely done,” he added with a smirk. “I was looking for a way to avoid her not-so-subtle invitations. Though now I fear I shall be dodging invitations from her husband too!”

  I tried not to laugh. “I would say I’m sorry, but I’m not. So why did you follow me?”

  “I told you, it is unsafe. Somebody must watch over you.”

  “Gods, Juba! I have been taking care of myself for a long time. I do not need your protection.”

  “But why come here of all places?”

  “I am meeting someone.”

  “Here? Who in the world would you meet here?” he asked, stepping around me to rinse his hands in the trickle of one of the fountain’s grimy, algae-covered spouts.

  Somebody touched my shoulder — a man, smelling of wine and grease. His tattered brown tunic sported rings of sweat stains under his arms and fleshy chin.

  “How much?” he asked, grinning and showing brown teeth.

  “Excuse me?” Could this be the contact I was supposed to meet? How would I know?

  He pointed with his head to a tavern and its adjoining row of abandoned stalls covered in dirty draping. “How much? One of them stalls is free. I could pay you two sesterci.”

  I stared at the man, still uncomprehending.

  “A bargainer, eh? Well, you’re young and clean.” He reached for his tattered coin bag under his belt. “I’ll go up to one denarius, but not an as more!”

  “She’s not for sale,” Juba said irritably.

  The man looked from Juba to me. “You sure about that? I likes ‘em young.”

  I stood up, my face burning, my fists clenching. “How dare you, you ignorant, unwashed, uneducated, poor excuse of a man!”

  “Pax, pax,” Juba said, grabbing my arm and walking me away to the other side of the fountain. “Remember where we are — you don’t want to incite the man to violence.”

  I looked back. The man had disappeared into the crowds. Another man pushed his way out of one of the curtained stalls he had pointed to, adjusting the belt of his tunic.

  “Gods!” I muttered. “Why would that man think that I was a prostitute?”

  “Because you weren’t doing anything but sitting pretty,” Juba said. “What?”

  “The women at the fountain are collecting water or washing things. They are busy, preoccupied, working. But you sat facing out, appearing to all the world as if you were on display.”

  “But that is outrageous!” I cried. “I was just waiting….”

  “That is life in the Subura. Come on, let’s go someplace else. I’ve heard one of the stalls around here has the best stuffed chickpea pancakes around.”

  “No,” I said. “I have to wait.”

  “Who are you waiting for?” he asked. “You never told me.” I looked around without answering. “Why can’t you tell me?” Juba asked.

  Suddenly, I thought, What if the person would not or could not approach me while Juba stood near? “I really wish you would leave,” I said.

  “Gods, Cleopatra Selene. Please do not be subtle on my account,” he said with a laugh. “But I cannot leave now because I am curious. Who is this mystery person you have come to meet?” He grinned and crossed his arms.

  When I again did not respond, his expression changed. “Wait, you are not meeting a lover here, are you? Is that why you want me to leave so badly?” He stepped closer. “It’s not Marcellus, is it? But why would you meet him here? But if not him, then who is it?”

  I continued ignoring him. Let him think I had a lover. Better that than discovering the truth.

  “Are you mad?” Juba said. “You cannot …”

  “Of course I can. Why do you continue to see me as a child?”

  His face registered shock and surprise and something else I could not read. “But … I thought … I wanted to …” He paused. “How serious is it?”

  Whatever I was going to say was drowned out by the shouts of a group of soldiers who had rumbled into the fountain square.

  “There!” an officer said, and the men — thundering in their hobnailed boots — spread out and encircled a group of people. Women screamed. Chickens squawked and ruffled their feathers in outrage. Men cursed in Latin, Persian, Gallic, and other unfamiliar tongues.

  “What’s happening?” I whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Juba said.

  “Got ‘em!” one of the soldiers announced.

  The crowd parted as people scurried away in a panic. The soldiers held a struggling old woman and a young man with a shaved head in their grip. I gasped. My two fellow initiates from the Temple! They must have been the ones I was sent to meet.

  “Did you get the one from Caesar’s house?” yelled the officer.

  “It’s this one!” answered the soldier, holding on to the struggling young man.

  “No, you idiot!” the officer hissed. “They were meeting someone from the inside! That’s who Caesar wants us to bring back — the traitor from his house!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  My heart raced. This was a trap? To catch me? How … how could Octavianus have discovered the plot? Thankfully, it sounded as if they did not know it was me — only that it was someone from the compound. Had he found out about the stolen seal? My breath constricted in my throat.

  I looked at the old woman, who’d tied her long gray hair back under a mantle. She seemed serene, unlike the young man, whose face contorted with frustration as he tried to twist out of the soldier’s hold.

  “Who were you going to meet here, you witch?” the officer spat at the old woman. When she did not answer, he slapped her.

  “Gods, we have to help them!” I hissed. A crowd surrounded the soldiers, murmuring angrily at the officer’s treatment of the old woman.

  “Looks like they set up a trap but missed their quarry,” Juba agreed. “I’m going to find out more.”

  He walked up to the officer. They seemed to know each other. As they talked, the old woman caught my eye and signaled with her eyes that I should get away. But I could not. How could I leave them to this? What would they do to them? My heart thudded in my ears as I realized they would torture them for information. They would reveal my identity — the priestess’s too. Goddess help us! What would Octavianus do to me? To Alexandros?

  The soldier holding the young man must have loosened his grip. In an instant, the young man twisted away and ran off.

  “Get him, you idiot!” the officer bellowed when he saw what had happened. But the boy had already melted into the multitudes. Even denser crowds surrounded the soldiers then, deliberately blocking their ability to go after him. The helmeted officer screamed into his cadet’s face, the cords of his neck bulging, spittle bursting like sea spray. Someone laughed. The furious officer looked at the growing mob of angry Suburanites, his eyes wild with rage.

  “Let go of the grandmother!” someone cried.

  “Yeah, what’d she do, dilute your wine too much this morning?”

  Angry murmurs rippled through the press of people. The soldiers looked at one another. There were only a handful of them against countless bitter locals just looking for any reason to erupt at perceived injustices, including a senseless attack on a sweet old woman. I realized then that even soldiers were scared in the Subura.

  “Release her,” the officer said to the man holding the woman. “She is too old to run away.” He turned to the crowd. “We will not hurt her!�
� he bellowed. “We only want to question her!”

  More grumblings. A glint caught my eye as the old woman pulled a dagger from her belt. Was she going to attack the officer?

  No. She wrenched the dagger across her throat in one rapid movement, slicing deeply through the soft wrinkled flesh of her neck. Dark, almost black blood spurted forth like the first gushes of a pump being primed. People screamed. I moved forward to help the old woman, but Juba, whom I hadn’t even realized had returned to my side, held me back. The crowds surged toward the soldiers in a rage. The men pulled their swords, standing next to one another as if about to fall into testudo formation. The old woman fell to her knees in front of them.

  I moaned in horror, and not just for the old woman. Flashes of Alexandria. Father’s man, Eros. Blood pumping from his slashed throat. Blood, everywhere blood. The heavy metallic-sweet smell of it as it poured out of my father in front of me …

  “Selene,” Juba hissed. “Look at me.” But I could not tear my eyes from the woman, now drowning in her own blood as people yelled threats and insults at the soldiers. He grabbed my chin, forcing my face toward his. “Look at me.”

  I blinked, dizzy, trying to catch my breath, trying to focus on his eyes. I heard the officer barking out orders, the people grumbling.

  “Bring the old woman to the Palatine,” the officer barked. “Caesar will want to see the body.”

  I shivered. The body. Were they talking about Father?

  “Keep looking at me,” Juba said.

  His brown eyes locked on mine.

  “Gaius, you still around?” the officer asked.

  “Right here,” Juba said. I did not want him to turn from me. I gripped his arm, desperate. He lifted the mantle to cover my head as the officer came up to him.

  “For the love of Mars, what was all that?” the officer asked. “I hate coming in here — these people are animals!” Sweat poured from his brow. He narrowed his eyes at Juba. “Did Caesar send you here to report on me?”

  “What? No,” said Juba, blocking me from the officer’s view.

  “You’re not going to tell him we lost the boy, are you?” asked the officer. “I don’t think he was important. He was probably just trying to steal the old woman’s bag of coins. It’s her we wanted,” he said, sounding as if he were trying to convince himself.

  “You said they were meeting someone from Caesar’s household?”

  The officer nodded, his eyes shifting continuously for signs of trouble from the crowd. “Yeah. Caesar’s people in Egypt discovered a counterfeit seal, and he’s convinced someone from the inside made the imprint because the workmanship was so good. But my men jumped too early and we missed em. Gods, where do they get these kids? No discipline at all!” He turned back to Juba. “The traitor probably slid away at the first sign of trouble,” he said. “So, what brings you to this pit of slime anyway?”

  Juba must have made some gesture.

  “Oh-ho!” the officer said. “I see now. Nothing like a hot tryst in the Subura for a little change of pace, eh?” I stiffened. “I’m going to need a drink before we head back and face Caesar. How’s about a quick nip in that tavern right there? She can join us if you want.”

  Juba shifted. “No, Lucius. I really just want to …”

  “All right, all right. I know what you want. Never mind. I have to report to Caesar anyway.” The officer finally clomped off in the direction of his men.

  Juba turned toward me. “Follow me,” he ordered under his breath, taking me by the wrist.

  We moved in the opposite direction from the soldiers carrying the old woman’s body. I looked back at the pool of blood glimmering a thick, dark red. A filthy barefoot boy dipped one hand into the bloody puddle and pulled out the dripping dagger, holding it up to the sun and grinning as if he had found some momentous treasure. A woman waved the boy away, pouring a bucket of water over the blood. Rivulets of red streamed down and around the uneven cobblestones.

  Juba gave me a slight yank to keep me moving. I did not recognize any of the streets we followed but caught sight of the Forum of Julius Caesar rising to my left. I tried to twist my wrist away.

  “I don’t want to go there!” I said, feeling desperate. The Forum was the heart of Rome’s business and political world. It swarmed with senators and military men — the same men who had betrayed my father.

  Juba shook his head. “That is not where we are going.”

  I breathed easier when he turned toward the slope of the Quirinal Hill. “Here,” Juba said. He pushed me into a small tavern near the Gardens of Sallust. I stumbled in the sudden darkness; he pulled me to a little table in the corner.

  “Whatchu want, sire?” the tavern lady asked.

  “Wine,” said Juba. “Your best.”

  A man sitting by himself near the door chuckled. “That means don’t spit in it, Tullia!” he yelled a little drunkenly.

  I pulled up a short wooden stool, still shivering from confusion. Juba poured wine from a beaker into rough clay cups.

  “Drink,” he ordered.

  I held the cup to my lips. I had the strange sensation of not being certain where I was. If I walked out that door, would I be back in the palace in Alexandria? Where was Ptolly — who would tell him about Tata?

  “Cleopatra Selene,” Juba said. “Your eyes … you need to stop looking everywhere. Focus on one thing. Look at me.” I stared into his eyes again. “That’s right,” he said. “Breathe deeply. No, no, don’t look away.”

  He put his hand on my cheek to keep me focused. His touch was so warm. I closed my eyes, wanting to go away, to sleep forever.

  “Shhhhh,” he whispered into my ear. “It is over.”

  He wiped my cheek. I had not realized I’d been crying. I nestled into his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close. Slowly, so slowly, my racing heart began to beat in a more regular rhythm. I came back into myself.

  “Better?” he murmured.

  I nodded, not wanting to leave his warm embrace, but he pulled back and instructed me to take another sip of wine.

  “What happened, Cleopatra Selene? Did the gods send you visions? What did you see?”

  “My father. And his man, Eros. Eros slashed his throat like that … and then Tata … He took his sword and he …”

  “You were there when your father fell on his sword?” he asked.

  I nodded again.

  “Gods,” he whispered. “I did not know….”

  But why would the Goddess send me such a vision? What was she trying to tell me? Was cutting my own throat to be my fate too? I said another silent prayer for the old woman who took her own life rather than risk mine. I worried for our plans too, as well as for the safety of the Priestess of Isis. Had Gallus betrayed us to Octavianus?

  “Now,” Juba said, more quietly, leaning into me. “This is important. Tell me the truth. Are you the traitor from the inside they sought?”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “Traitor to whom?” I asked.

  Juba paused. “To Rome, of course.”

  I did not answer, but he scanned my face. Then he groaned and cursed under his breath. “Gods! How can you be so … so stupid?”

  I stood up, sending my wooden stool clattering. The men in the tavern swiveled in my direction. “I should ask you the same thing. How can you be so stupidly loyal to those who took everything from you?”

  I turned and headed for the door of the dark little tavern.

  “Cleop —” Juba stopped himself from saying my full name. “Wait. Please,” he said, catching up with me as we stepped out into the bright light of the street. “I am sorry. I am just worried for you. Do you realize how close you’ve come to being executed as an Enemy of Rome?”

  “What do you know of any of this?” I asked.

  “I don’t. But I have put the pieces together. Are you aware of what has happened to Gallus?”

  I stopped and shook my head cautiously, my pulse speeding up. Pedestrians jostled us as they wou
nd their way to the taverns and eateries around us.

  “We can’t talk here,” he said, grabbing my hand. “Follow me.”

  Juba led me down the Via Salaria, weaving in and around the crowded lanes toward the entrance of the Gardens of Sallust. Shaded with porticoes and dotted with small fountains, pools, and temples, the Gardens were one of the more beautiful, peaceful places in Rome. Lush cypress, pine, sycamore, and boxwood absorbed most of the cacophony of the city, dulling it to a muffled roar.

  The Gardens were largely unoccupied at this time of day, though judging from the affectionate embraces of the couples in the shaded porticoes, it was a favorite assignation for young lovers. Juba led me to an immense willow tree. We parted the thick, drooping boughs that surrounded a marble bench like a curtain and sat down. The long silvery green foliage stirred ever so slightly in the breeze. “What happened to Gallus?” I asked.

  “What were you planning with Gallus?” he returned, almost at the same time.

  “You first,” I said.

  He sighed. “He has committed suicide.”

  “What?”

  “Caesar discovered a plot. Gallus was aiming to wrest control of Egypt from him. Caesar exiled him, and he fell on his sword at the dishonor.”

  Gallus dead. I could not think. Our plans gone. How much did Gallus reveal?

  “Now, tell me,” Juba continued. “What does this have to do with you?”

  I hesitated. Could I trust Juba? Or would he reveal what he knew to Octavianus? He had been so good to my brothers and me. But who could say whether Octavianus had put him up to it in order to spy on us?

  I shook my head. No. Juba was likely the only reason — besides Octavia — that Alexandros and I still lived. Alexandros! What if they jumped to the wrong conclusion and thought he was the traitor? Gods, had I put my brother in danger?

  I stood. “We have to go back. I am worried about my brother.”

  “Wait,” he said, grabbing my wrist.

  His sudden grip caused a surge of panic, as if I were trapped, cornered. I could not lose Alexandros! I could not — must not — allow anything to happen to him.