Cleopatra’s Daughter: A Novel (8 page)

I smoothed my little brother’s hair from his brow, then opened his fingers so they could finally relax. “My little prince,” I whispered.

But my brother stood up from Ptolemy’s bed in a rage. “What have we done? Why are the gods punishing our family like this?”

“Shh!” I said sharply. “Give him some peace! He heard enough anger in life.”

Alexander sank to the bed and put his face in his hands. “Why?”

I didn’t have an answer.

When the news was sent to Octavian, the Macedonian slave returned to collect Ptolemy’s body for a burial at sea. But Alexander stood guard in front of the bed.

“Only murderers are buried at sea!” he cried.

“I’m sorry, Domine, but these are orders from Caesar himself.”

“Then tell him no!” my brother shouted.

Agrippa appeared, and the Macedonian shook his head. “They want to keep the body.”

Agrippa stared at my brother. “We have many days left at sea, and no embalming materials to keep his body fresh. Let your brother rest with Neptune, Alexander.”

While the Macedonian wrapped Ptolemy in the sheets of his bed, I strained to see his golden head one last time, and the little lips that had so often trembled in fear. He’d been a timid child, and my mother’s favorite after Caesarion.
I should have looked after him better
, I thought.
He was too young to survive so much upheaval
.

We followed the slave into the crisp morning air, then through the royal courtyard to the side of the ship. All the important members of Caesar’s retinue were gathered. A priest of Apollo said several words in prayer, and each face was solemn, even Octavian’s. I held on to Alexander’s arm to keep myself from collapsing on the deck. And when the Macedonian dropped the tiny body into the sea, my brother dashed to the railing. “Ptolemy!” he cried desperately.
“Ptolemy!”
Agrippa held him back.

“Take him to the courtyard,” he instructed. “Find him some food and good Chian wine.” Several men escorted my brother away, but I remained on the deck, letting my hair whip in the wind, too tired to push it away.

He hadn’t even been given a decent burial. The blood of Alexander the Great and Marc Antony had run through his veins, and he’d been tossed into the sea like a criminal. But what better fate lay ahead for Alexander and me? Octavian had said he would keep us alive, but if he’d lied to the Queen of Egypt about leaving for Rome in three days instead of eleven months, what would stop him from lying to us? He was never going to parade my mother through Rome. I knew now that Caesar had tried it with Arsinoë, and instead of cheering, the people had revolted. They were shocked by such treatment of a woman, and the sister of the Queen of Egypt, no less. My mother had never faced any future but imminent death, and if Octavian hadn’t fooled her into taking her own life, he would have found someone to kill her. And once his Triumph in Rome was finished, why should our future be any different?

I thought of the many terrible ways there were to die, and wondered if Ptolemy had escaped worse pain. I put my hand on the polished rail. With one jump, there would be no more tears, no more loneliness.

“I wouldn’t think it, Princess.”

My back tensed. I had thought everyone had left, but I spun around to face Juba. In his vermilion toga, he looked more regal than Octavian in his homemade tunics and broad-brimmed hats.

“Have you ever seen the body of a drowned man?” he asked. “It swells five, even six times its size, then turns black until the skin peels away.”

My knuckles grew white as I gripped the rail.

“Do you want to end up as a bloated corpse abandoned at sea?”

“Better than a corpse abandoned in Caesar’s prison!” But I turned from the railing and Juba got what he wished for. Alexander and I would be alive for Octavian’s Triumph.

AS THE
ship approached a harbor for the first time in weeks, Alexander and I rushed to the prow.

“Is this Rome?” I asked. There was no Museion gleaming in the afternoon light, and the villas that hugged the vast stretches of shore were plain, without columns or ornamentation. There was nothing to distinguish one squat white building from the next except the colors of their wind-beaten shutters.

My brother shook his head. “Brundisium. I heard it’s another ten days by litter to Rome.”

Hundreds of soldiers waited on shore, their red standards emblazoned with a tall, golden eagle and the letters
SPQR
, for
Senatus Populusque Romanas
. Brundisium’s port was large enough to berth fifty ships, but there was nothing like my mother’s
thalamegos
. I could see the soldiers’ reactions as the ship came near, her banks of ebony oars catching the sun as her purple sails snapped in the wind. The men shielded their eyes with their hands, and they shook their heads in wonder.

Agrippa appeared with Octavian on the prow. Both men were
dressed as if for war.
To remind Rome that they’ve returned as conquering heroes
, I thought bitterly.

“Caesar’s carriages are waiting on the shore,” Agrippa told Alexander. “The pair of you will travel with his nephew, Marcellus.”

I tried to pick out Octavian’s nephew, but Agrippa remarked, “Don’t bother.” There were too many horses and soldiers.

“Do you have your sketches?” Alexander asked.

“Yes. And do you—?”

Alexander nodded. He had hidden books from our mother’s library in his bag—a last reminder of her before we left her
thalamegos
to the Romans at Brundisium. I looked one last time at the polished decks as the tinny sound of trumpets pierced the air. Three of her children had boarded her ship, but only two had reached her enemy’s shore.

Octavian was the first to disembark, followed by Agrippa and Juba. When it was our turn to walk the wooden steps, Alexander held out his hand. I shook my head. “I’m fine.” But we hadn’t felt land in more than three weeks, and suddenly my legs gave way beneath me.

“Alexander!”

But it wasn’t Alexander who caught me. Instead, it was a young image of Hercules.

“Be careful.” He laughed. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with hair the color of summer’s wheat. His eyes were lighter than Ptolemy’s had been, a turquoise made even brighter by the darkness of his skin. I felt my cheeks growing warm at the sight of him, and he smiled. “Now, don’t faint on me,” he warned. “I’m the one who’s supposed to take care of you.”

“You’re Marcellus?” Alexander asked.

“Yes. And there she is.” He indicated a horse-drawn carriage.

“But that’s a king’s carriage,” I replied.

Marcellus laughed. “I wouldn’t say that too loudly. My uncle likes
to think of himself as consul. If the people should get the idea he wants to be king, there’ll be another mess on the Senate floor.”

“Romans don’t want kings?” my brother asked.

Marcellus led us from the docks, and his toga flapped at his heels. “There was a time. But it has passed, and all they can think of now is a republic. Of course, there’s been a hundred years of civil wars with their republic, and the first end in sight was Julius Caesar. They all want a vote, but they vote for their own clans, and nothing but bloodshed ever gets accomplished.” We had reached one of the carriages beyond the shoreline, and as Marcellus held open the door for us, he said warmly, “Prince Alexander, Princess Selene.”

Inside, I looked meaningfully at my brother. Why were we being treated so kindly? What had Octavian written to his family from Alexandria? We listened while Marcellus chatted genially with Juba and Agrippa outside, and his voice carried far beyond our carriage.

“And the Egyptian women?” he was asking.

I could hear Juba’s wry laughter. “They would have swooned at your presence,” he promised. “Falling into your arms like the princess Selene.”

When my brother looked over at me, I blushed.

“And the fighting?” Marcellus pressed.

“The gods were with us,” Agrippa replied.

“With us, or with
you?
They say the Egyptian fleet—” Marcellus cut himself off, and his voice grew serious. “I am glad to see you’ve returned safe, Uncle.”

“Marcellus,” I heard Octavian reply, “I hope you’ve been applying as much passion to your studies as you do to your gossiping.”

“Yes, Caesar,” he said quietly.

“Good. Then you may tell me what kind of ship this is.”

There was an uneasy silence, and I could imagine Marcellus’s
extreme discomfort as he stood in front of Octavian. I pressed my mouth close to the window and whispered,
“Thalamegos.”

“Selene!” Alexander mouthed, but Marcellus had heard and repeated the word.

“It’s the queen’s
thalamegos
, I believe.”

I could hear Octavian step back on the gravel. “He’s going to be your equal someday, Agrippa. A titan in the Senate and on the battlefield as well.”

I couldn’t see Agrippa’s face to know his reaction. But when Marcellus joined us in the carriage, he looked immensely relieved.

“I don’t know how I can thank you, Selene.” He took a seat across from me, next to Alexander. “I would have had to study ships all the way to Rome if you hadn’t come up with it.”

“Is he really so strict?”

“All he does is write letters and prepare speeches for the Senate. He wouldn’t leave Syracuse if not for his wife.”

Alexander frowned. “The city?”

“No. His study. He named it for Archimedes, the Greek mathematician who lived there.”

“But he doesn’t speak Greek,” I protested.

Although my brother glared at me, Marcellus only laughed. “It’s true. But everything is theater with my uncle. You’ll see.”

In front of our carriage, there was a confusion of voices. Then someone shouted and the crack of a whip set the long procession rolling. I looked at Marcellus and decided he wasn’t more than two or three years older than Alexander and me. He was dressed in an undistinguished white toga, but the fabric was superior to anything I’d seen Octavian wear. When he caught me looking at him, he smiled.

“So you are Marc Antony’s daughter, Selene,” he remarked.
“Strange. There’s almost no resemblance between you and Tonia or Antonia.”

“Are those my father’s children with Caesar’s sister Octavia?”

Marcellus nodded. “Yes, with my mother.”

Alexander sat forward. “So you are our brother?”

“No. I’m Octavia’s son with Marcellus the Elder. It’s very confusing, I know. Prepare to be confused much of the time you are in my mother’s house.”

“We’re going to Octavia’s house?” I asked.

“Of course. You’re to live with us.” Marcellus saw the look I gave to Alexander, and shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking. Your father left my mother for yours. But don’t be nervous. My mother loves children. Of course, Livia won’t like you at all.”

“That’s Caesar’s wife?” Alexander asked.

“Yes. She doesn’t like anyone but her own sons, Tiberius and Drusus.”

I was confused. “I thought Caesar only had a daughter.”

“Yes. Julia, from his first wife. Then he divorced that wife and married Livia when she was pregnant with her second son.” When I inhaled sharply, Marcellus laughed. “It was a scandal. But now my uncle has two adopted sons.”

“Then they are his heirs?” Alexander asked, wondering whom we should be careful to impress.

Marcellus shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Actually, I think he may be more partial to me. He hopes to make me a senator in ten years or so.”

“So is a senator a prince?”

“No!” Marcellus thought my question was wildly funny. “Didn’t your father tell you anything about the Senate?”

“Our mother forbade it. I don’t think she cared much for Roman politics,” Alexander remarked.

Marcellus sat back against the padded seat. “Well, the Senate is just
a group of men from the most powerful clans in the Roman empire.” When I frowned, Marcellus said, “You know. Like the Julii and the Claudii. Or your father’s clan, the Antonii. They have to be at least ranked as equestrians first, and then there’s different types of senators. Quaestors, aediles, praetors, consuls. Of course, the consuls are the most powerful.”