Desert Prince

by Constance O'Banyon

  Desert Prince

  Constance O’Banyon

  Contents

  Dedication

  Author's Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  This one is for you, Billie Bennet. There are no sweeter

  memories than those shared with a dear friend. Our families

  braved snowstorms and snowblindness together.

  And for you, Leslie—how the time flies.

  You should still be a teenager.

  Author's Note

  Being a lover of history, I find the most compelling and rewarding part of writing to be making the past come alive. I have always been fascinated by Egyptian and Roman history and have read every book I could find on the subjects, devouring them with a passion. While delving in extensive research on the history of Queen Cleopatra, I discovered so many different accounts of her life it boggled my mind, up to and including Shakespeare’s celebrated version. In my four-book saga about the Tausrat family, I have interwoven their lives with Queen Cleopatra’s, advancing the plot with events as they happened in her life. In doing so I tried not to play fast and loose with history, attempting instead to stay as close to the facts as they are known. Where there is little knowledge about certain events, or even many different accounts, I chose to tell my own version as it might have occurred.

  Think about it: The world must have trembled and almost spun off its axis when Cleopatra, Julius Caesar, Marc Antony, and Octavian (Augustus Caesar) clashed. Seldom have we caught a glimpse through the thin veil of history where four such powerful personalities touched each other’s lives. I have tried to do justice to each of them, but as a writer of fiction, I embellished, while keeping true to what is known of these extraordinary personalities.

  Take a journey into the distant past. Hear the whisper of hot desert winds as they uncover great mysteries. Smell the exotic aroma of frankincense and myrrh. Listen to the sounds of hoofbeats clatter across stone streets. Hear the distant clashes of swords in battle. Glimpse marble palaces and towering obelisks in a world of wealth and glory that has never been equaled. Experience love, hate, betrayal, and extraordinary loyalty.

  The past beckons. Walk with me through the ancient land of Egypt.

  Prologue

  Alexandria, Egypt

  Twelfth Sextilis, 30 B.C.

  Looking resplendent in his ceremonial robe, with a white tiger skin draped over his long red mantle, Kheleel, the high priest of Isis, practically threw himself out of his litter, which was no easy task considering his stature and girth. Kheleel’s size had always worked in his favor since he usually towered above those who sought his counsel; it also allowed him to intimidate those who doubted his powers.

  The day was hot, and he dabbed a clean linen cloth beneath his kohl-lined eyes before swiping it across his shaved head. Kheleel’s mission was a dire one, and he dared not hesitate or stop to catch his breath. Lumbering forward, he shoved aside a blind man in rags who held out his rusted cup, pleading for alms.

  There was despair in the high priest’s heart. He hurried down a graveled path that led through a magnificent courtyard with mosaic fountains guarded by twenty-four marble lions. He bypassed the palace and took the curved walkway toward a tall, imposing marble structure that was simple, but elegant in its beauty. The structure was surrounded by a terraced garden and a view that swept out to the aqua-colored Mediterranean Sea. The sweet aroma of hundreds of exotic scents stirred in the air.

  Gasping to catch his breath, Kheleel was forced to halt and bend forward because his lungs felt as if they would burst from want of air. Then with determined urgency, he surged forward, his goal just ahead.

  Queen Cleopatra’s mausoleum.

  The two Macedonian guards standing before the beaten-bronze doors three times their height quickly stepped aside to allow Kheleel to enter. Even in his urgency he was struck by the splendor of the high ceilings decorated with gold filigree. Along the walls were statues of long-dead Ptolemys, and the black marble floor was so highly polished he could see his reflection. He hurried past chairs of gold inlaid with precious stones and a colossal jeweled mosaic of the goddess Isis.

  Gathering his courage, he walked steadily toward the woman who stood so regal, waiting for his approach.

  Queen Cleopatra.

  Cleopatra was not a tall woman, but she was imposing nonetheless. Her green gaze settled on him, and he saw great sorrow in the shimmering depths. She wore a filmy green robe that accentuated her slim body, and her hair was unbound, falling across her shoulders in an ebony mass. Although the queen was not considered a great beauty, no one realized it while in her presence. Her personality was magnetic, her voice as sweet as music. She was highly intelligent, speaking and writing seven languages. Her bloodline was pure Greek. Though her family had ruled Egypt since the death of the great Alexander, she was the only Ptolemy who had bothered to learn Egyptian, a fact that endeared her to her subjects.

  At the queen’s right hand, standing tall and erect with his muscled arms folded across his broad chest, was Cleopatra’s trusted Sicilian guard, Apollodorus. To the queen’s left stood her head handmaidens, Charmion, whose golden hair was bound about her lovely face, and Iras, a dark-skinned beauty with long black hair and honey-colored eyes.

  Although her world was crumbling about her, Cleopatra appeared calm and serene, but the high priest expected nothing less from this noble queen.

  “My good Kheleel,” Cleopatra said, “I summoned you to enlist your aid. There is something of great import I must ask of you.”

  The high priest saw the empty alabaster sarcophagus that stood on a golden base, and its meaning struck him like a sharp blade. He bowed, casting his gaze to the floor because at the moment he could not meet the queen’s eyes. “Anything, Great Majesty. Is there no hope?”

  “None. Octavian will declare Egypt a Roman province, and there is nothing I can do to stop him. My doom was sealed the day the Roman Senate gave him complete power. As we speak, his armies are but a few hours from Alexandria. There is much to do, and I must act quickly.”

  “Lord Antony?”

  In all the years the high priest had known the queen, he had never seen her cry, but the tears that now glittered in her green eyes brought tears to his own.

  Her lips trembled, but she quickly compressed them. “As you already know, Antony rode out to meet Octavian. I have had no word from him. Whether he lives or not, he has no hope, for Octavian has the might of Rome at his back,” she admitted in a trembling voice.

  There was urgency in Kheleel’s tone. “There is still time for you to escape, Majesty. Yo
u must not remain until the Romans arrive at our gates.”

  “Nay, I shall not run, good Kheleel—I shall not abandon my people except when death takes me.”

  He looked toward the empty sarcophagus, grief hitting him so hard he staggered. “Can you not strike a bargain with Octavian, Majesty—abdicate in favor of your son by Julius Caesar?”

  “Have you not heard Octavian has proclaimed himself Caesar’s son? Think you he will allow my son by Caesar to live? Nay, Caesarion is a threat to that cowardly imposter.” Cleopatra’s shoulders straightened. “Know this—Octavian sent a courier with word that he would spare my life if I would have Antony slain. Of course he would spare me so he could later humiliate me and parade me in chains behind his chariot at his Triumph in Rome.” Her eyes glittered, and her fists tightened at her sides. “There is not much I can do to thwart that man, but I shall rob him of his fondest desire. His victory over Egypt will not be complete without me.”

  Despite the hopelessness of the situation, Kheleel admired his queen’s bravery. “Must it end this way, Majesty?”

  “It must. Can I depend on you to help me?”

  “Ask anything of me, and it shall be done, even unto dying at your side.”

  The queen gave him an anguished smile. “Nay, my trusted servant, you shall not die.” She leaned closer, her voice lowered. “Having celebrated sixteen seasons, my son, Caesarion, is now of age. It will be difficult for him to leave Egypt, but he must—never to return. Everything has been made ready for his escape, and you shall be his escort on this most dangerous mission.”

  “Where can I take him that Octavian will not follow? Rome’s reach is long, Majesty.”

  She handed him a sealed scroll. “This will reveal all. Keep my son hidden until the ship I have sent for arrives—it should dock by tomorrow morning. Then go directly to the harbor and look for a Bal Forean ship. You will know it by the figurehead of a hawk in flight. Trust no one. Not at the temple, not even onboard the ship. No one must know the identity of my son. Caesarion must forget who he is and be dead as far as the rest of the world knows.”

  “And your other children, what of them?”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “Because they are not Caesar’s children, they are no threat to Octavian. He will not dare harm them. Rome would never condone the murder of Antony’s children.”

  Kheleel met her gaze. “Majesty, I beseech you to accompany us on this voyage.”

  There was impatience in her tone. “I have no time to argue this with you. I rely on you to escort my son to Bal Forea and place him in the care of Queen Thalia.” She handed the high priest another scroll. “I have written instructions for the queen. Urge upon her the importance of raising my son as if he were her own. He must never challenge Octavian, nor think of Egypt as his home. I must know Caesar’s son will live or else everything we had together will have been for naught.”

  Kheleel bowed to the woman who, to him, was Isis incarnate. “I will do as you bid.”

  “Before you leave, send your priests to purify my mausoleum. They must make it ready to receive me. Go now, my good and faithful friend. By my calculations, Octavian will arrive before sunset.”

  Once more Kheleel bowed. “May you fly with the spirits of the gods, Most Gracious Majesty,” he said in a voice choked with emotion.

  Cleopatra did something altogether unexpected; she took his hand. “There are few I would trust with this mission. I know you will not fail me.” She suddenly dropped his hand and stood back. “Caesarion awaits you in the center room of the temple. Make haste!”

  There was nothing for Kheleel to do but obey. He backed toward the door, then hurried down the corridor as tears flooded his eyes and rolled down his plump cheeks.

  Without Cleopatra, Egypt was doomed.

  Cleopatra stood for a long moment, wondering at what point in her life she had set her feet upon this path of destruction. Perhaps it had begun with the seeds of glory Caesar had planted in her mind, seeds that she, in turn, had enthusiastically replanted in Antony’s mind.

  Together they had had such dreams.

  She sighed. With the might of Rome on the outskirts of Alexandria, it was too late for regrets. She was bereft. If Antony still lived, she must indeed be responsible for his death, but not to please Octavian.

  Never that.

  Charmion suddenly appeared. “Majesty,” she said urgently, “Lord Antony has arrived.”

  Cleopatra’s heart sang with joy. Her beloved was alive!

  Then she met Apollodorus’s understanding gaze—he knew as she did what must be done, and she saw pity reflected in her faithful servant’s dark eyes. She swallowed twice, and she felt she could actually feel her heart break. But there was no other way. Turning to Charmion, she said, “Go to my husband at once. Do exactly as I have instructed.”

  The handmaiden bowed her head, unable to meet the queen’s eyes. “I am to tell Lord Antony you are dead so he will take his own … life.”

  Cleopatra brought her hand to her heart. Hearing the words said aloud brought cruel reality crashing down around her. At this moment her beloved was near, and yet she could not go to him as her heart urged her to do. She had lived more fully with Antony than most people did in a lifetime. They had loved as few people ever had. She had borne him three children, and if the gods were willing, she would take his love with her into the next world.

  Charmion took a step toward the door, then turned back to the queen. “What shall I do … afterward?” she asked sorrowfully.

  “Have my guards hoist Antony’s body into my burial chamber.” Cleopatra looked doubtful. “Surely Octavian will not deny us the right to be entombed together. It is not much to ask in exchange for all the riches of Egypt.”

  Amber-colored clouds stretched across the sky, announcing sundown by the time Charmion returned to Cleopatra, her face streaked with tears. Going down to her knees, she raised a sad gaze to the queen. “The deed is done, Majesty. When I told Lord Antony you were dead, his grief was like nothing I have ever witnessed. He cried your name in agony until his torment was so great, he fell upon his own sword, saying he could not live in a world without you.”

  Cleopatra raised her face upward, biting her trembling lip. “Is he dead?”

  “Nay. He still breathes, but faintly.”

  In that moment Cleopatra heard a grinding sound, and she knew her Macedonian guards were hoisting Antony up to the small opening in the tomb. With the help of Apollodorous and her two handmaidens, they pulled Antony inside.

  Cleopatra sank to the floor, taking her beloved in her arms. “Antony, my Antony, the pain is all but over.” She glanced out at the darkening sky. Night birds trilled their sweet song, and she felt the heat of the desert breeze on her face. It seemed a sundown like any other. Why did not the clouds weep and thunder crash across the sky? Great Antony was dying! Should not the ground tremble and dark clouds block out the sun?

  Antony’s gaze fastened on her face. “I thought … you dead … and was hurrying to join … you.”

  Grief cut through Cleopatra like the sharpness of a knife piercing her heart. She had grieved when Caesar had been assassinated, but Antony’s death tore at her like thorns ripping her apart. To never hear his voice speak her name. To never lie in his arms and make love. She touched her mouth to his. “Soon, my beloved—soon we shall be together, and no one shall part us.”

  She raised tear-bright eyes to Iras, her voice no more than a whisper. “Help me dress, then bring me the basket of figs.”

  Iras reached out her hand to the queen, then let it fall to her side. “It will be as you say, Glorious Majesty.”

  Octavian glared at Vergilius, his newly appointed captain of the guard, and slammed his fist against the palm of his hand, his face contorted with fury. “Queen Cleopatra deceived me! She lulled me into believing she wanted to live, and all the while she intended to die by her own hand.”

  Agrippa, Octavian’s second-in-command, glanced at the man who now held Egyp
t in his fist. His commander had pale hair and pale skin—too delicate to be called handsome, but striking in his own way. He was intelligent—had he not outfought and outfoxed the powerful general, Marc Antony?

  “And yet,” Agrippa observed, “you must admire the queen’s courage. Imagine allowing a deadly cobra to bite her. Brave, extremely brave.”

  “I shall hear no praise of her!” Octavian said, his voice rising in fury. “Bring me the son she claims was fathered by Caesar.”

  “And the other three fathered by Antony?”

  Octavian thought for a moment. “It must appear to the Egyptian people that I am merciful if I am to ingratiate myself with them. Have Antony’s children sent to my sister, Octavia. Send word that she is to raise the offspring her husband begat upon that Egyptian harlot.” Octavian felt pleased with himself. “Aye, the Egyptians shall think me compassionate, as well they should.”

  Apollodorus had been summoned by Octavian and appeared with a proud youth dressed in a white pleated kilt, gold bands on his upper arms, and the crown of Egypt atop his dark head.

  Octavian walked around the young lad appraisingly. “You know who I am?” he asked Apollodorus.

  The Sicilian stared at Octavian unblinkingly and said in a lazy voice, “You are a man of little importance who obtained greatness because your mother happened to be the niece of great Caesar.”

  Octavian’s eyes blazed at the insult. “Careful, Sicilian. You tread the ground of treason.”

  Apollodorus crossed his arms over his broad chest, looking bored. “Under the rule of my queen, it was never treason to speak the truth in Egypt.”

  Octavian chose to ignore the second insult and circled the young prince once more. The boy stared back at him with an insolent glare, but Octavian’s words were for the Sicilian. “And here I hoped we could be friends,” he said in a mocking tone.

  “I choose my friends with care and with a thought to their worthiness.”

  Again Octavian chose to ignore the taunt. “Does the lad speak Latin? Does he know he will soon join his mother in death?”