Cleopatra’s Daughter

“Ride with me,” Alexander said. The two of us shared a chariot with Iras, and as the horses started moving, my brother took my hand. We sped through the gates, and from the Royal Harbor I could hear the gulls calling to one another, swooping and diving along the breakers. I inhaled the salty air, then exhaled sharply as my eyes focused in the dazzling sun. Thousands of Alexandrians had taken to the streets. My brother tightened his grip. There was no telling what the people might do. But they stood as still as reeds, lining the road that ran from the palace to the mausoleum. They watched as our chariots passed, then one by one they dropped to their knees.

Alexander turned to me. “They should be fleeing! They should be getting as far away from here as they can!”

“Perhaps they don’t believe Octavian’s army is coming.”

“They must know. The entire palace knows.”

“Then they’re staying for us. They think the gods will hear our prayers.”

My brother shook his head. “Then they’re fools,” he said bitterly.

The dome of our family’s mausoleum rose above the horizon, perched at the rim of the sea on the Lochias Promontory. In happier times, we had come here to watch the builders at work, and I now tried to imagine what it would be like without the noise of the hammers and the humming of the men. Lonely, I thought, and frightening. Inside the mausoleum, a pillared hall led to a chamber where our mother and father’s sarcophagi lay waiting. A flight of stairs rose from this room to the upper chambers, where the sun shone through the open windows, but no light ever penetrated the rooms below, and at the thought of entering them, I shivered. The horses came to a sudden halt before the wooden doors, and soldiers parted to make way for us.

“Your Majesty.” They knelt before their queen. “What do we do?”

My mother looked into the face of the oldest man. “Is there any chance of defeating them?” she asked desperately.

The soldier looked down. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

“Then leave!”

The men rose in shock. “And … and the war?”

“What war?” my mother asked bitterly. “Octavian has won, and while my people scrape and bow at his feet, I’ll be waiting here to negotiate the terms of my surrender.” Across the courtyard, priestesses began to scream about Octavian’s approaching soldiers, and my mother turned to us. “Inside!” she shouted. “Everyone inside!”

I gave a final glance back at the soldiers’ fear-stricken faces, then we plunged in. Within the mausoleum, the summer’s heat vanished, and my eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. Light from the open door illuminated the treasures that had been taken from the palace. Gold and silver coins gleamed from ivory chests, and rare pearls were strewn across the heavy cedar bed that had been placed between the sarcophagi. Iras trembled in her long linen cloak, and as Charmion studied the piles of wood stacked in a circle around the hall, her eyes began to well with tears.

“Shut the doors!” my mother commanded. “Lock them as firmly as you can!”

“What about Antyllus?” Alexander asked worriedly. “He was fighting—”

“He’s fled with your father!”

When the doors thundered shut, Iras drew the metal bolt into place. Then, suddenly, there was silence. Only the crackling of the torches filled the chamber. Ptolemy began to cry.

“Be quiet!” my mother snapped.

I approached the bed and took Ptolemy in my arms. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I promised. “Look,” I added gently, “we’re all here.”

“Where’s Father?” he cried.

I stroked his arm. “He is coming.”

But he knew I was lying, and his cries grew into high-pitched wails of terror. “Father,” he wailed. “Father!”

My mother crossed the chamber to the bed and slapped his little face, startling him into silence. Her hand left an imprint on his tender cheek, and Ptolemy’s lip began to tremble. Before he could begin to cry again, Charmion took him from my arms.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I tried to keep him quiet.”

My mother climbed the marble staircase to the second story, and I joined Alexander on the bottom step. He shook his head at me. “You see what happens from being kind?” he said. “You should have slapped him.”

“He’s a child.”

“And our mother is fighting for her crown. How do you think she feels, hearing him crying for Father?”

I wrapped my arms around my knees and looked at the piles of timber. “She won’t really set fire to the mausoleum. She just wants to frighten Octavian. They say his men haven’t been paid in a year. He needs her. He needs all of this.”

But my brother didn’t say anything. He held the pair of dice in his hands, shaking them again and again.

“Stop it,” I said irritably.

“You should go to her.”

I looked up the stairs to the second story, where my mother was sitting on a carved wooden couch. Her silk dress fluttered in the warm breeze, and she was staring out at the sea. “She’ll be angry.”

“She’s never angry at you. You’re her little moon.”

While Alexander Helios had been named for the sun, I had been named for the moon. Although she always said her little moon could never do anything wrong, I hesitated.

“You can’t let her sit there alone, Selene. She’s afraid.”

I mounted the steps, but my mother didn’t turn. Clusters of pearls gleamed in her braids, while above them, the vulture crown pointed its beak to the sea as if it wished it could leap away and take flight. I joined her on the couch and saw what she was watching. The wide expanse of blue was dotted with hundreds of billowing sails. All of them were pointed toward the Harbor of Happy Returns. There was no battle. No resistance. A year ago our navy had suffered a terrible defeat at Actium, and now they had surrendered.

“He’s a boy,” she said without looking at me. “If he thinks he can keep Antony’s half of Rome, then he’s a fool. There was no greater man than Julius, and the Romans left him dead on the Senate floor.”

“I thought Father was Rome’s greatest man.”

My mother turned. Her eyes were such a light brown as to be almost gold. “Julius loved power more than anything else. Your father loves only chariot races and wine.”

“And you.”

The edges of her lips turned down. “Yes.” She gazed back at the water. The fortunes of the Ptolemies had first been shaped by the sea when Alexander the Great had died. As the empire split, his cousin Ptolemy had sailed to Egypt and later made himself king. Now, this same sea was changing our fortunes again. “I have let Octavian know I am willing to negotiate. I even sent him my scepter, but he’s given me nothing in return. There will be no rebuilding Thebes.” Sixteen years before her birth, Thebes had been destroyed by Ptolemy IX when the city had rebelled. It had been her dream to restore it. “This will be my last day on Egypt’s throne.”

The finality in her voice was frightening. “Then what do we have left to hope for?” I asked.

“They say Octavian was raised by Julius’s sister. Perhaps he’ll want to see Julius’s son on the throne.”

“But where do you think Caesarion is now?”

I knew she was picturing Caesarion, with his broad shoulders and striking smile. “In Berenice with his tutor, waiting for a ship to take him to India,” she said hopefully. After the Battle of Actium, my eldest brother had escaped, and the princess Iotapa, who had been promised in marriage to Alexander, had fled back to Media. We were like leaves being blown about by the wind. My mother saw the look on my face, and took off her necklace of pink sea pearls. “This has always brought me protection, Selene. Now I want it to protect you.” She placed it over my head, and its golden pendant with small onyx gems felt cold against my chest. Then her back stiffened against the wooden couch. “What is that?”

I held my breath, and above the crashing waves I could hear men pounding on the door below us.

“Is it he?” my mother cried, and I followed the silk hem of her gown to the bottom of the stairs. Alexander was in front of the door, and his face was gray.