The men turned, and Alexander said quickly, “She’s talking to Ptolemy. Of course you may keep this.”
I pressed my nails into my palms, a nervous habit I had picked up from Charmion, and Ptolemy asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Our brother is giving away my things.”
His little features were bunched up in confusion. “But we already gave away all of our things from the palace.”
“No,” I replied, barely containing my rage. “They were
When Alexander returned, I couldn’t bear to look at him.
“What’s the matter with you?” my brother whispered harshly, pushing back the hair that escaped from his diadem. “We’re not in Alexandria anymore.”
“No, because the man you are giving gifts to murdered our family!”
“Do you think if our father had won he would have kept anyone alive? Even Octavian’s heirs?”
“He has no heirs! Just a girl.”
“Then if he did?”
“So we’re alive! For now. And only because Octavian doesn’t want to parade three stinking corpses through the streets of Rome. Wait until the Triumph is over,” I warned. “Antyllus was murdered at the feet of Caesar’s statue, and Caesarion was beheaded. What do you think will happen to us?”
“Exactly what he said. We will be given away in marriage.”
“And how is that better than death? To marry a Roman?”
“Our father was Roman.”
“Perhaps by blood, but in every way that counted he was Greek. The way he dressed, the gods he worshipped, the way he spoke—”
“Not on the battlefield.”
I looked up, and Alexander’s light brown eyes were blazing.
“You didn’t see him in the stadiums,” he said, “preparing for battle or racing chariots. All he ever spoke was Latin.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I lie? Our father was a Roman, even if he never put on a toga.” When I didn’t say anything, Alexander shook his head. “You are very stubborn.”
“And you are very trusting,” I said accusingly.
“Why shouldn’t I trust? We have no other choice!”
“Stop it! Stop it!” Ptolemy cried. He put his hands on his ears and screeched, “Stop fighting!”
Octavian had gone back to his work, but Juba looked up from his couch.
“You see what you’ve done?” Alexander said to me, casting a look over his shoulder. “Agrippa warned us to be silent.”
“Ptolemy, we aren’t fighting,” I said comfortingly. But he had put his head down on my pillow, and I could see that his pale skin was flushed. I placed the back of my hand on his cheek. “Alexander, he’s hot.”
My brother crossed the cabin to feel Ptolemy’s brow. “He probably needs sleep.”
But even though Ptolemy slept for much of the next few days, his cheeks remained flushed. Alexander and I devised quiet games to play with him, even while he lay on the pillows of his bed, but by the third day, he was too tired even to play.
“There’s something the matter with him,” I said. “It isn’t normal.”
“It’s just a fever,” Alexander replied. “We had it in Thebes. It’ll break with enough water and rest.”
So we brought Ptolemy fresh juices and fruit. And while he lay, I sketched my mother’s
On our fifth morning at sea, Alexander lowered a scroll onto his lap. “Who do you miss the most?” he asked quietly.
I glanced at Ptolemy, to make sure he was still sleeping. “Charmion,” I admitted. “And Mother.”
My brother nodded.
“And you?”
“Petubastes,” he replied, and I could see that he was struggling to hold back his tears as he recalled the young priest of Ptah who had been our Egyptian tutor in the Museion. “And Father, of course. Have you seen all the statues they took from Alexandria? Octavian has them in the library, and there’s one of Petubastes. Juba is labeling each one for sale.”
“And what does Juba know about Egyptian history?” I demanded.
“He’s a writer.” I didn’t know where Alexander came by this information, but he seemed certain of it. “He’s already written three books on history.”
“At eighteen?” I challenged.
“Nineteen.”
“So he’s a writer as well as a spy.” I despised the Prince of Numidia, who had turned his back on his ancestry to become close to Octavian. But that afternoon, when I had run out of subjects to draw, my curiosity overcame my dislike. I had intended to keep away from my mother’s library, but I wanted to see what had been taken from Egypt.
When I arrived, the doors of the library were already thrown open, and light streamed from the windows onto the rich panels. Hundreds of statues and stolen shrines were pressed against the walls. But aside from marble faces, the room was empty. I stepped inside, then heard the swift footsteps of someone rushing to hide.
“Who’s there?” I demanded, and a man appeared at my mother’s wooden desk. I could see from his unmarked tunic that he was a sailor, and he was holding a statuette of Isis in his hands.
“Well, good morning.” He took several steps toward me and smiled. “The men were right. You are a pretty girl.”
Immediately, I turned to run. Then a streak of metal flashed in the doorway and someone’s arm lashed out. A heavy blade struck deep into the panels where the sailor was standing, and at once the man dropped the statuette. I didn’t move. I didn’t even breathe.
“I hope you are going to return that,” Juba said.
The man bent to collect the statuette, but as he replaced it on the table, his trembling hands knocked it over and broke a tiny arm. When he rushed to leave, Juba caught him by the neck.
“You will never touch anything that belongs to Caesar.” The man did his best to choke out a response, but Juba tightened his grip. “The next time, I will aim for your throat,” he promised. He shoved the man away, then turned his black gaze on me. “What are you doing here?”
“A scroll,” I lied swiftly. “I—I just wanted something to read.”
“So find it,” he said angrily, and made his way to the desk. He picked up the broken arm of the goddess and held it up to the light before discarding it into an empty amphora.
“No! Don’t throw it away.”
He looked up, and I could see that he did not wish to be disturbed.
“That’s a very old statue,” I told him.
“Well, thank you, Princess. Unfortunately, not many Romans are interested in purchasing broken statues of Egyptian goddesses. But since you’re so interested in art, why don’t you tell me which pieces you believe to be the most important?”
I had seen Juba in his fury, and did not wish to make “him” any angrier, so I pointed to a statue, and he raised his brows.
“Tuthmoses I?” Juba asked.
I was impressed that he could identify a Pharaoh whose reign had been more than a thousand years earlier. “How did you know?”
“I can read hieroglyphics,” he said curtly. “What else?”
I pointed to the bronze bust of Dionysus, and suddenly tears were welling in my eyes. I tried to blink them away before Juba could see.
