Cleopatra's Moon

by Vicky Alvear Shecter

  You are not your mother….

  “Stop it!” I howled. “Stop saying that! I know that! Must you shame me with the obvious?”

  You have the power to choose something else.

  The breath in my panting lungs rattled to a stop in bewilderment. What did she mean? I had spent my entire life trying to follow in Mother’s footsteps, all to no avail. What did she mean, “something else”?

  A treasonous thought wormed into my awareness: What would have happened had Mother chosen something else? What if she had chosen to live instead of abandoning us to our fates in Rome? What if we had not been left by both our parents to face their defeat alone?

  Perhaps Mother would have been put to death in Rome. Perhaps we would have been killed along with her. But if so, we would have gone together, not set adrift alone in a sea of despair and hostility. She could have chosen to stay and protect us. She could have chosen to survive.

  A wave of grief and loss and loneliness surged through me then, ripping at the roots of everything I had ever held sacred about Mother — that she was a hero, that she had done the right thing, that there had been no other option for her. That she had made a noble decision.

  That it was all right.

  “You could have made a different choice, Mother,” I whispered.

  And the truth of that notion nearly brought me to my knees. How different everything would have been if Mother had chosen to live.

  What do you choose, my queen? the Goddess whispered.

  I moved back from the slippery edge of the ship, feeling my toes grasp for purchase as it rolled under me.

  “I choose power,” I whispered in wonder, remembering the words I had used in my initiation vision. I had thought, at the time, that I was choosing power over Egypt or over my enemy. Or that the Goddess was directing me to choose between men, between Marcellus and Juba. But that was not the kind of power she meant at all.

  I stared up at the moon, higher and smaller as it arced over the night sky. Mother chose escape in the arms of Anubis. But I could choose something else. Even after all the pain, all the losses, all the grief, I could choose the power of facing my life, even as it veered in directions I never dreamed of nor wanted.

  I laughed again then — not in a manic way, but with the fierce ache of knowing that this was a kind of power I had never before understood. Was this choice the “free will” the old rabbi from Alexandria had tried to explain to me?

  I did not know. I knew only that, for the first time, I could make a clear choice to live my life and not my mother’s. To face my future with dignity and strength no matter what had happened in the past or what might happen in the future, no matter what I wanted or thought I should have or deserved.

  I stepped off the wooden chest, staring out into the rolling black sea. Without thinking, I reared back and hurled Mother’s dagger into the sea with all the force I had left in me. The waves smoothed as if, in releasing the jeweled knife, I had finally slain the great black-coated beast that threatened to swallow me whole.

  I tested the new thought once again: I was not my mother.

  I could choose something different.

  I could choose to live.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  “It is time to meet your betrothed,” Zosima whispered in my ear.

  I nodded. “Another minute,” I said, though I’d been stalling for some time. I knew I would have to meet the king of Mauretania soon. But fear held me fast.

  I sat on a cushioned vanity bench in my new chambers and looked at the tessellated tile on the floor, the paintings of stalking tigers and trumpeting elephants on the walls, the aromatic and immense blooms that filled alabaster and onyx vases in every corner of the room. This small but elegant villa, which the Mauretanians called their king’s palace, was probably the height of luxury for the desert-dwelling chieftain.

  The city of Iol, in Mauretania, where we had docked earlier, had surprised me as well. I had expected craggy beaches leading into sweltering deserts or wild jungles filled with beasts. But instead I found a thriving port city, rich with life and commerce, extending into vast hills dotted with green and gold fields of swaying grain. I remembered then that all of North Africa supplied wheat to Rome, not just Egypt. Palms thrust into a brilliant blue sky, waving in the crisp sea breeze, surrounded by lush bursts of blooming fruit trees and brilliantly flowering bushes. Small chattering monkeys leapt from tree to tree in a copse extending out over the water.

  The port, though, was strangely quiet and empty. Roman soldiers outnumbered Mauretanians. I had groaned inwardly at what this meant: that Rome had only recently moved into the area and had probably strong-armed the local chieftain or king into “accepting” Rome’s supremacy at sword point. I must have been a bargaining chip. The people were likely frightened, angry, and confused.

  The king had sent an emissary to the port to meet us. The dark Mauretanian bowed and handed me a note and a small package. In perfect Greek, the note read,

  It is with great sorrow that I hear of the loss of your beloved twin, Alexandros. Perhaps this small gift will remind you of happier times.

  But I could read no further. I set it aside. I did not for a moment believe that the Mauretanian king had written me a note in Greek. The desert nomad had probably never read a scroll in his life.

  As our litter wound through the streets to the king’s house, people stared at us with cautious curiosity. I heard mostly Punic, though I picked up smatterings of Greek, Latin, Aramaic, and even Hebrew.

  And now, in this room, I was moments away from facing the life I had chosen to see through.

  Zosima held up a bronze reflecting disk for me to inspect my appearance, and I caught my breath at how much my fierce expression and my malachite- and kohl-painted eyes looked like Mother’s. I waved the disk away.

  Tanafriti wound herself around my ankles, purring. Sebi sat tall, staring at me.

  “Yes, yes,” I muttered at him. “I should not make him wait any longer.”

  I knew my delay bordered on rude, but I needed to build up my fortitude. Despite my commitment to face my future, I was still frightened of what I would find. What if this chieftain was worse than a Roman paterfamilias and demanded full control over every aspect of my life? How would I maintain my own power if he tried to deny me autonomy?

  I fingered the woven covering of the gift my future husband sent, running my fingers over the exquisite Mauretanian designs — chains of diamond shapes rendered in brilliant blues, reds, yellows, and greens. I removed the fabric.

  A weathered scroll. The Love Poems of Catullus. In Latin. I unwound the old papyrus and my eyes lit on this:

  Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?

  Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

  I hate and I love. Why I do this, perhaps you ask?

  I don’t know: I only know that I feel it happening, and I am tortured.

  I put the scroll down and watched it curl back into itself. Still, it was a good sign that he had sent a book. Perhaps he would not be averse to my plans for building a library worthy of the one that had been taken from us in Alexandria. I would fill it with the great works of Greek and Egyptian poets and scientists, as well as the beautiful writings of the Parthians, Chaldeans, Indians, and other great civilizations from around the world. If nothing more, that would be my legacy. I smiled with hope at the thought.

  Outside my chamber, Zosima chattered excitedly to someone in Greek. I sighed. The king must have gotten tired of waiting for me and sent his Greek-speaking representative. I hoped my Punic would return quickly enough that we could dispense with the translator.

  Taking a deep breath, I stood, lifted my chin, and stepped out of my chamber. In the same moment a handsome, familiar face looked up from sharing a laugh with my nurse. My stomach clenched.

  Juba?

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, shocked.

  Juba furrowed his brow, his smile faltering. “What … what do you mean?” He tilted
his head ever so slightly. “I wanted to see you. I got tired of waiting.”

  “But what are you doing here in Mauretania? Is Numidia allying with Mauretania — is that why you are here?”

  Juba looked at Zosima with a wary, vaguely alarmed expression. With a quick look in my direction, she scuttled out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  He faced me. “Cleopatra Selene. Are you all right?”

  “I do not understand,” I said, feeling slightly disoriented — much the way I had felt when I first stepped off the ship and wobbled on the dock as if we were still on the high seas. “Why are you here? Where is the king?”

  “I am the king of Mauretania,” he said.

  “No you’re not. You are king of Numidia! In your native homeland!” Juba opened his mouth, then closed it. “Did you not receive my letters about what happened in Numidia?”

  “Livia burned all my letters.”

  “Without reading them?”

  I shrugged, not sure. “And about two months ago, we stopped receiving any correspondence at all. I assumed the war had blocked the roads.”

  He nodded. “Livia probably did not know then. Hardly a surprise; hardly anyone here in Mauretania knows either,” he added with a rueful laugh.

  “Knows what?”

  “That Caesar moved me out of Numidia and into Mauretania, making me its first king. Based on the reception I have received — which is very little, I should add — it appears most of Mauretania does not know this news yet either.”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. “But your homeland is Numidia….”

  “Let me explain,” he said. “The native Numidian ruling class was happy to have me reclaim my legacy, but the Roman governor was, to put it delicately, incensed. So you can imagine my arrival in Numidia did not go over well. He incited his followers to rebel, and we almost had a small civil war. Caesar appeased him by moving me to Mauretania for the time being. This all happened only recently, and very quickly, to avoid a military confrontation.”

  “But Numidia is your homeland, your true legacy….”

  He smiled. “As soon as the governor either finishes his command or dies — whichever comes first — I will extend my kingdom to include Numidia.” When I still didn’t say anything, Juba shifted his weight. “I wanted to fight the Roman governor for Numidia, but Caesar wanted this compromise instead. I agreed to move to Mauretania on one condition.”

  “And that was?”

  “That he release you and Alexandros to me.”

  The room tipped and swayed around me. I reached out to a curved ebony chair for balance. Alexandros. How thrilled he would have been to see Juba! To know that we were not just out of Rome and the shadow of Octavianus’s hatred but with someone who had always cared for us.

  I closed my eyes in grief for a moment, remembering how Alexandros had joked that leaving Rome made him feel like Persephone emerging from Hades. He had been right. But now I felt more like Orpheus, who looked back too early and lost Eurydice.

  “I am so sorry about Alexandros,” Juba said. “I will miss him greatly.”

  The silence stretched.

  “Are … are you grieving over the loss of Marcellus too?” he asked quietly.

  I almost laughed. I had not thought about him once since leaving Rome. I shook my head.

  “You understand that Caesar never would have allowed a union with Marcellus, yes?”

  I nodded, embarrassed at my misguided attempts at seduction. “But I still don’t understand why he agreed to your terms,” I said. “He hates me.”

  “Yes, but he also, despite himself, respects your determination and your will to rule. At least Livia always has. And this arrangement makes him look good, as he gets rid of you without a scandal at the same time that he pleases his eastern holdings. They will be happy to hear a princess of Egypt rules in Africa. It was a good — actually, a brilliant — political move.”

  I stared at Juba. Could this really be happening?

  He squinted at me, looking a bit dismayed. “Did you get my gift?” he asked. He seemed suddenly shy, tentative.

  I nodded. “Thank you,” I said, worried that I sounded too formal. I tried to smile. “I would have expected Greek poetry from you, though, not Latin.”

  “You didn’t realize, then?”

  “Realize what?”

  “It is the same scroll you left that day under the citron tree when you ran off….”

  Heat rushed up my cheeks. I had been reading Catullus? “The same one? You kept it all these years?”

  He nodded, shrugging slightly, as if a little embarrassed.

  My throat tightened at the memory of how much I had loved him, even then, even as a child. “You rejected me!” I teased as I tried to master my emotions. “You called me a gadfly!”

  “You were barely thirteen! You took me by surprise. And I meant gadfly as a compliment — a gadfly who inspired me to reach beyond myself. Without you, I would still be hiding in the scroll stacks in Rome.”

  I marveled at the mysterious ways of fate and the gods. And how I had come so close to following Mother’s footsteps to my death and missing this moment, missing this life.

  “So,” he said, coming closer. “Will you be my queen?”

  By Roman law — and since this was now a Roman client kingdom — I had no choice, no say. If the paterfamilias ordered me to marry Juba, I had to, no matter how I felt or what I wanted.

  But Juba was asking me to make a choice. To choose my fate, just as the Goddess had urged me, to make a choice to live and see my life through — alongside him. Again, I thought of the sweet old rabbi in Alexandria and his notions of free will.

  For a moment, I could not speak. So I nodded.

  A grin slowly spread across his face. As in the old days, my stomach fluttered at the sight of his beautiful, gleaming smile, and at the kindness, intelligence, and love that shone from his dark eyes.

  “Yes,” I finally breathed, moving toward him. “I choose this. I choose you.”

  THE END

  Author’s Note

  CLEOPATRA SELENE AND JUBA II

  Cleopatra Selene and Juba II ruled Mauretania and eventually parts of Numidia — today’s Algeria and Morocco — together for more than thirty years. They developed the region into a shining hub of commerce and literature, complete with centers of learning and an impressive library.

  We have no record of what their lives were like as rulers, only hints. Cleopatra Selene’s image was minted on coins along with Juba’s, suggesting that she ruled as an equal partner. Juba continued to make his mark as a scholar, penning multiple books on Latin history, Greek history, geography, painting, and theater. Pliny the Elder says he was a better scholar than a king, which also suggests that Cleopatra Selene handled the administration of their kingdom while Juba hit the books.

  Cleopatra Selene and Juba had at least one child named Ptolemy Philadelphos, likely named in honor of her beloved little brother. Some scholars believe Cleopatra Selene also had two additional children, both girls — one named Cleopatra Selene II and another named after Livia Drusilla. We have no record of the lives of these daughters, most likely because ancient writers ignored the lives of women. However, it is possible that Cleopatra Selene’s daughters survived to have children of their own, and that their descendants live somewhere in the coastal regions of northwestern Africa today.

  Cleopatra Selene died in 6 CE. Juba ruled with their son, Ptolemy, until his own death in 23 CE.

  Was theirs a love story? There is no way to know. I like to think so, for no other reason than Cleopatra Selene suffered enough losses in her life. There is some evidence, though, of Juba’s devotion to her. He lived seventeen years after Cleopatra Selene’s death. Some scholars believe Juba married again — to a woman named Glaphyra — in the interim years. Others are not so sure. But one thing is certain: When it came to deciding with whom he would spend eternity, Juba chose Cleopatra Selene. He had his body entombed beside hers, and you can v
isit their tomb near Cherchel, in Algeria. Like Cleopatra Selene’s own parents — Antony and Cleopatra — they live on, in memory, together forever.

  THE FACTS WITHIN THE FICTION

  THE GENERAL HISTORY:

  • The last queen of Egypt, Cleopatra VII, did indeed have four children: Ptolemy Caesar, known as Caesarion (Little Caesar), with Julius Caesar; and, with Marcus Antonius (Mark Antony), twins Alexandros Helios and Cleopatra Selene, and Ptolemy Philadelphos.

  • Her eldest, Caesarion, was hunted down and murdered by Octavianus’s men around the time of Cleopatra’s death in 30 BCE. Although Plutarch claims he died after her suicide, other sources (Cassius Dio) are not as clear. In this novel, I placed Caesarion’s death before hers. We don’t know what prompted Cleopatra to commit suicide on that particular day, at that particular time —why not earlier, for example, right after Antonius’s death? Creatively, it seemed plausible to me that the shock and grief of losing her firstborn would have served as the last straw, a sort of catalyst toward her final act.

  • Although not included in the story in order to simplify the character list, Antonius’s eldest son by a former Roman wife — Antyllus — was also murdered (beheaded) in Alexandria during the Roman invasion. Cleopatra’s surviving children — Cleopatra Selene, Alexandros Helios, and Ptolemy Philadelphos — were taken to Rome and reared in Octavianus’s compound.

  • In this story, Cleopatra’s children fear for their lives while under the guardianship of Octavianus. As paterfamilias, he had full legal control of all women and children under his guardianship. The paterfamilias could beat, sell into slavery, or even kill his charges without legal consequence. (To do so was looked down upon, of course, but one could still legally get away with it.)

  • In 29 BCE, the children of Antonius and Cleopatra were marched in Octavianus’s Triumph over Egypt. Most scholars believe the boys died sometime after the Triumph, for the two brothers are never mentioned in the ancient sources again.