Queen of Kings (31 page)

Amplified by the wind, Usem stood in the stands, singing the song he'd learned as a child in the desert to make snakes forgive the sins of humans. He sang, his throat open to the sky, his hands thrown out into the air, his feet stamping in the dance of the Psylli.

The serpents of Rome heard him.

All over the city, people leapt from their doorsteps in horror, watching serpents surge from tunnels and secret holes, watching the streets of Rome fill with a slithering, tangling mass, all the snakes proceeding to the circus. They continued to come until they ran like water down the Appian Way, stacked ten deep in every slender alley. They swam the river, their heads bobbing over the surface of the water like eels. They poured through marble hallways and over the tombs in the graveyards. They slipped through secret doorways, coursing over the unsuspecting bodies of illicit lovers and spilling across their beds and out of their windows.

There were more serpents in Rome than there were human souls.

The snakes danced for Usem the Psylli, and in the Circus Maximus, the great serpent that was the queen rose up as well, her green scales shimmering. Augustus fell from her grasp, tumbling end over end to the ground beside Agrippa, who lay transfixed, looking up at the serpent that had almost killed him.

Cleopatra's tremendous form undulated helplessly, senselessly, as though the Nile had been made flesh and now stood on end before the emperor of Rome, enslaved to his will.

Usem sang the final notes of his song, and the serpent ceased weaving. She stood frozen before him, before the wounded emperor, before her stunned children, and then, with a motion like the shrugging off of a veil, her head fell back, and she collapsed onto the floor of the circus, her body naked and human once more.

She was beaten.

Usem hesitated for a moment. Around him, the wind surged insistent, whipping his garments, informing him that he must capture and kill Cleopatra now, or risk further damage. He could not leave it for Rome to do, but Usem found himself uncertain of anything. He had spent too much time looking into the queen's eyes, had seen her there, lost and alone. He was not sure who his song had worked on, the serpent or himself. And his dagger. The poison on it had not even wounded her. What could he do?

Chrysate stepped behind Usem, remaining hidden. There was an opportunity to take what she wanted, weak as she was. Even the small spells had nearly broken her.

Auðr stayed at attention, her fingers moving in the air, spinning the greatest thread, that of the queen herself, now fallen in the dust. She'd tried again to cut it, but she could not. It was still too strong, too twined with the goddess's. The seiðkona pulled at other tense threads, tightening them into a web. The Psylli and the Greek priestess. The shade of Antony. Panting with exertion, her chest rattling, she twisted them together with the fate of the queen. And with her own fate. Always her own fate.

Antony cursed, his legionaries beaten. Half of them were dead, and the rest had been captured by Agrippa's men. What had he been thinking? His plan had been terribly flawed. He had failed Cleopatra, hired drunken soldiers, and not enough of them. They were scattered now, holding their heads, raving. The men had not been prepared to do what they should have done, taken Cleopatra from the circus as quickly as possible. He could not blame them. When he'd hired them, he hadn't known she was what she was. They'd had no warning.

Augustus's private guard surrounded Cleopatra, their spears and swords poised to attack her should she move again. Marcus Agrippa struggled to his feet, gasping for breath, lifting the emperor from the ground, wincing at the pain in his fractured arm.

The Egyptian boys ran from the stands to Cleopatra, crying out her name. Selene stayed where she was, looking down upon her mother as if frozen. Her mouth hung open, and her eyes were wet. Antony took a step toward his daughter, and then, seeing the horror on her face, he shifted and took another step down the stairs and toward his wife.

Chrysate exulted, pulling him back, her fingers laced around her holding stone. Behind her, the man in the employ of the senators stood, waiting, biding his time, even in the midst of chaos. She did not notice him.

“You are dead,” Chrysate told Antony. “You have nothing more to do here.”

“My wife is here,” Antony said, his voice low and dangerous. “And I will go to her.”

He tore himself from Chrysate's side, his face twisting with the pain of resisting the holding stone. Moving without touching the ground, he was nearly at Cleopatra's side within seconds. A shred of his soul remained in Chrysate's fingers. She clung to it fiercely, and Antony screamed with rage.

“I am no slave! You will release me!”

On the floor of the arena, Cleopatra trembled, her body still ruled by the snake song, though she'd shed the snake's form. She looked up, her face unbelieving.

“Antony,” she whispered. “I thought you were dead.”

“He is,” Chrysate said, and swiftly twisted the edge of Antony's soul in her fingernails, crushing him back into the wisp he had been when he first rose from Hades. She smashed him back inside the silver box, and then she moved toward Cleopatra, swift and graceful as a wolf assessing wounded prey.

The legionaries moved closer to the stricken queen, prodding her with their spears. Her two sons huddled beside her. Antony was gone. Surely, she'd hallucinated him. She stretched her arms to touch them, but the elder cringed, fearful of her hands. Ptolemy crawled into her arms, crying, and she held him tightly against her. She would not have long with him. She kissed his face, and whispered into his ear.

“You are the king of Egypt now. You and your brother. You must behave like kings.”

“There is no Egypt,” her elder son said. “Egypt is dead.” But he came to her anyway, and burrowed into her arms. Cleopatra held her children with all her strength and looked back up into the stands. Selene was still seated above her, looking horrified.

“I came for you,” Cleopatra said. “You are why I am here.”

Selene shook her head. Cleopatra looked into her daughter's eyes, at her small copper face. It had been over a year since she had seen her in the light, and the girl had changed.

“You are not my mother,” Selene said, and Cleopatra felt the words stinging her skin, breaking her memories of joy.

Her face a mask of confusion, Selene reached out to the witch who stood beside her, the witch who had captured her father. She took Chrysate's hand, and the priestess laughed. Strength flowed into her from the girl, even now.

The emperor hobbled down the stairs and appeared at Cleopatra's side, his eyes lit with triumph, despite his pain. In his hand, a silver net glittered.

Augustus threw the net over her, and she gasped at its scalding touch. The pain shone through the center of her bones, nearly intolerable. Her children were pulled from her arms, and she was left alone, tangled in silver.

“Did you think you could win over Rome? We will burn you this time,” he sputtered, rage and pain choking his voice. “Make no mistake, we will burn you.”

“You cannot burn me,” Cleopatra told him. “I will not burn.”

Augustus signaled to a grouping of soldiers, who stepped forward, their arms filled with clay vessels. They poured the contents over Cleopatra's body.

A sleek liquid that shone in darkness.

“You will burn this time,” Augustus said.

The queen writhed, tormented by the silver, and by the liquid drenching her hair, her hands, her fingers. The legionaries piled wood about her, a circle of kindling, and those assembled stepped back.

The emperor took the final vessel. He tilted it over Cleopatra's head, and a single spark leapt from it and into her hair.

There was a rushing sound, and Cleopatra was aflame.

Her children screamed in horror, Ptolemy's face hidden in Alexander's shoulder, Selene unable to keep from looking. From the corner of her eye, though, Cleopatra's daughter saw something on Chrysate's face. The witch glorying in the flame. As the light reflected off Chrysate's skin, Selene saw into her for a moment. Something ancient clothed in a beautiful body. Something was not as it seemed. Selene gasped, and dropped Chrysate's hand, trembling, but the witch did not notice. The power of the fire was too compelling. She let the heat warm her face.

High in the stands, Nicolaus watched, his face wet with tears. They were making a grievous mistake, and he was powerless to stop them.

Augustus shouted with triumph as the inferno grew hotter and hotter still, white and blue, and at its center his enemy twisting, her body lit from within, incandescent with heat. This was the end, and he had won. This was the end, and he was watching her die.

Cleopatra struggled against the net, her body heated past pain, the silver melting into her skin, and yet she was not consumed.

She screamed in agony and felt the earth shake as her bones glowed, and her voice filled with thunder. Something was changing. The flames were not burning her but feeding her.

The sky tore open with lightning, and from it came the roar of a goddess. The legionaries looked up, terrified at the sound of the storm's voice, and in the sky they saw a tremendous fireball crossing the heavens. Another roar, this one of resurrection. Romans fell to their knees, praying to their own gods, but it did no good. Sekhmet slashed the sky above them.

Augustus himself stared at the comet. An omen. But of what? He did not know.

Cleopatra burned brighter and brighter until through the flames, she saw a single living creature, a moth with a red coral body and enormous pearly wings spotted in black flecks, like hieroglyphs.

The moth was drawn toward the inferno, its flesh singing in anticipation, its wings spreading, its destiny certain.

At last, it was there, its delicate membranes heating, its creamy wings catching fire. She could see it, illuminated in the last moment of its life.

As it died, Cleopatra was carried through the net and high into the air on a sudden current.

A metamorphosis. She spread her wings and flew, aiming herself at the comet.

High in the stadium, the Psylli shouted a few furious words to the wind and signaled to the priestess. The wind changed direction, and Chrysate leaned forward as though this had been her plan all along. She held out her silver box. She had seen this moment in the scry months ago, though she had not known how it would come. She had waited for it. Auðr leaned forward as well, her eyes flashing. She would have only one chance. In her hands, she held the fates, trying to keep them controlled.

“
Bring her to me
,” she told the Psylli, but the man ignored her.

Behind Chrysate, the man sent by the senators moved for an instant, his hand outstretched to snatch the holding stone from Chrysate's seat. In its place, he left a piece of green glass. He slipped back into the darkness, gone before the priestess saw him.

The newborn moth fluttered, caught in a current, helpless, rising, rising, and the wind, angrily following the orders of Usem, carried her into the priestess's clutches instead of the seiðkona's.

Chrysate's face contorted as she fought against the power the fire had lit in the queen, using all her strength to close the silver box around the moth.

Everyone in the arena watched light wings disappear into the dark, and Chrysate cried out with triumph.

Beside the priestess, a small girl with long black hair cried out as well, a broken, despairing cry, and then, disregarding the emperor, disregarding the witch, disregarding the soldiers who tried to stop her, she ran out of the arena.

She did not look back.

N
icolaus rose from his crouch high in the stands and looked down into the dust where the bloodstains were still bright and the bodies of bestiarii and animals lay. There was a tremendous blackened circle in the sand at the center of the arena, and the smell of fire still lingered in the air.

How could he have been so foolish?

On the ship, he had seen what she had done, but he had not seen her
do
it. He had not imagined what she was capable of, not truly. A lioness, he knew, but tonight, with every flicker of torchlight, she became a new thing, and all of them equally savage. With every move, she lacerated skin and wounded innocent victims, without conscience, without care. Nowhere in the stories, nowhere in the histories, was there anything comparable. And the sky. He knew that the Romans had called the goddess back to earth with those flames, as surely as he knew anything. Fire was Sekhmet's family. She was a daughter of Ra.

Now a lowly witch held her in a box.

Did they not understand that a witch could not cage a goddess? Cleopatra would escape, and when she did, she would tear the world apart.

Nicolaus knew that he should take to the sea and disappear beyond the horizon. He was a scholar and a fool, and she was a monster.

Instead, he ran down the stairs, trying to force himself to do what needed to be done before he had time to regret it. He sprinted through the Circus Maximus and out the gates, saying a silent good-bye to any life he'd had as a historian. His fate had changed, and he must follow it.

He climbed the Palatine Hill. He would go to the emperor.

He'd lost hope of separating Cleopatra from Sekhmet. The queen he'd known was gone.

Now, in spite of his conscience, in spite of his guilt, in spite of his fear, Nicolaus sought a weapon that would kill her.

 

 

T
he senators convened in a secret chamber, quickly accessed from the Circus Maximus, all of them nearly frantic with excitement and shock.

“There is opportunity in this!” cried the first senator. “Augustus employs powers far beyond his control. The emperor will say the fire in the sky was an omen for his success, but Cleopatra lives, and our emperor marched through Rome declaring her dead. He is a liar and a betrayer of the republic. He deals in the very things he decries.”