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  “It is time,” he announced, “to make my Dispositions of War, to reward Egypt for her unceasing loyalty.”

  The crowd whooped and stomped. I perked up. Tata was about to bestow his gifts to us, his family. To me! My mind raced with the possibilities. Was I to receive a new crown from his plunderings? A golden chariot? Or perhaps an exotic beast, maybe even one that breathed fire?

  Tata turned toward my two-year-old brother, Ptolemy Philadelphos, who sat beside me. Ptolly looked just like our tata, with a head of shining dark curls, mischievous brown eyes, and the barrel-chested body of a bull. The crowds had swooned with adoration at the first sight of him swaggering in his tiny military cloak and boots.

  “To my youngest son, Ptolemy XVI Philadelphos,” Father bellowed as the crowd hushed in anticipation, “I grant the lands of Phoenicia, Syria, and Cilicia.”

  The people roared. I drew a breath, stunned. Father was giving us kingdoms? I forgot to keep my head facing forward and turned to Ptolly. He scowled furiously, waggling his chubby legs in his toddler-sized throne as the noise reverberated around us. Worried that he might begin to cry or have a tantrum, I took his pudgy hand in mine and bent toward his ear.

  “Look at Tata,” I instructed. “He is talking to you!”

  Ptolly locked eyes with Father. When Tata grinned at him, Ptolly grinned back, showing all his little milk teeth. Then he toddled toward Tata, to the crowd’s cooing delight. One of the guards intercepted him and escorted the little general off the dais.

  “To my daughter, Princess Cleopatra VIII Selene,” Father called, and I felt the attention of thousands land on me like a physical force — an energy that made me sit up straighter and raise my chin, despite my racing heart. “I confer Cyrenaica and Crete, where she will rule as queen. May she rule with as much wisdom as her namesake.”

  I was queen! Queen of Cyrenaica and Crete! As the people thundered their approval, Tata caught my eye and winked. Forgetting protocol again, I grinned and inclined my head. This sent the crowds roaring even louder, and I heard my name chanted over and over again. I marveled at the power pulsating all around us — power freely laid at our feet, ours for the taking.

  I wanted to jump up, to hug my tata, to do anything but continue sitting like a block of marble. But, of course, I would not disappoint Mother. I held my breath, pretending to be as solemn and immobile as the giant statues of the Great Ones.

  Tata turned his attention to my twin, Alexandros.

  “To my son, Alexandros Helios, I bestow the kingdom of Armenia, where he will rule with his betrothed, Princess Iotape of Medea.”

  The crowds whooped in honor of Father’s decisive victory in the region, but I refused to steal even a side-glance in my twin’s direction. The Interloper sat between us.

  The black-eyed, silken-haired little princess was nothing more than a royal hostage — a guarantee that her father the king would stay loyal to Tata. But I could find no warmth in my heart for her. The way Alexandros acted around Iotape, it was as if Hermes himself had come down from Mount Olympus and hand delivered her to him. Until she showed up, he and I had lived as if we still shared a womb — playing, sleeping, eating, and laughing together. But now it was Iotape my twin sought out at first light and played with until dusk, when Ra’s sunboat descended into the Dark Lands. I would not forgive her for taking him from me.

  Still, our people continued to cheer at the announcement, celebrating the return of a strong and vital Egypt. Armenia and Cyrenaica had been under our dominion when our Macedonian-Greek ancestor Alexander the Great and our dynasty’s founder, his brother Ptolemy the First, took Egypt nearly three hundred years ago. We Greeks had ruled ever since. And now, thanks to Tata, we were stronger than we had been in centuries.

  “In addition,” Tata bellowed, “I bequeath to Alexandros Helios and his betrothed rule over all the lands of Parthia!”

  I barely noticed the undercurrent of bewilderment that rippled through the crowds, the whispers of, “How could the General give away lands he has not yet conquered?” After all, my tata was the best general in the world. Of course he would conquer Parthia!

  Tata then turned his attention to my older half brother, Caesarion, the only son of Mother’s first husband, Julius Caesar. At thirteen, Caesarion was slim and tall, and I thought he looked magnificent in the kilt and pectoral of a pharaoh, combined with his father’s bloodred Roman cloak.

  “Ptolemy XV Philopator Philometor Caesar,” Tata called, “I name you the true heir and only son of Gaius Julius Caesar. And I name you the king of Egypt!”

  From the corner of my eye I spied Caesarion lifting his chin, and my heart swelled with love and pride. My brother, the king! The king of

  Egypt!

  But again, murmurs of unease snaked through the crowds, accompanied by whispers of a name I did not then know: Octavianus. I blinked, confused. Why should a Roman name be on our people’s lips when Caesarion was rightly being named their king? I tried to make sense of the murmurs: “Isn’t Octavianus Caesar’s heir?”

  “Is Antonius challenging him?” Some in the crowd even made the sign of protection against evil.

  I stole a glance at Mother. She let out a breath that sounded like a hiss. And although her face kept its expression of queenly impassivity, I saw a flicker of concern settle on the tiny space between her brows. But it may have only been a trick of the fierce Egyptian light, for when I looked again, Mother’s face appeared as majestic and untroubled as it always had.

  Tata glanced at Mother, and his eyes crinkled before he turned back to the crowds. “To my wife, Cleopatra VII Philopator, Queen of Egypt and overlord of all the kingdoms bestowed today …” A rumble of cheers, shouts, and joyous exultations interrupted him, almost as if our people were thrilled to move on to what they knew and loved. The cheers swelled until I felt them vibrating in my chest bones. Mother did not move as the entire city chanted, “Isis! Isis! Hail Isis! Isis our queen!”

  When the wave of noise crested, Tata began again. “Today,” he boomed, “I name my wife Queen of Kings, Ruler of the Two Lands, Overlord of our Children’s Territories, and Partner in managing Rome’s interests in the East. I have a vision of the future — a vision of cooperation, not destruction. Borne up by the loyalty of client kings and queens, Rome cannot be stopped.”

  He swept his arm toward the Lighthouse. “And like Pharos that shines into the night, Egypt serves as a beacon to Rome’s future. A future of partnership. A future of immeasurable wealth. A future that no man or king can rend asunder!”

  The whoops of joy became deafening. Tata grinned and held both arms up in exultation. He bid Mother stand next to him. The bright Egyptian light seemed somehow concentrated on them — I had never seen them look more godlike.

  As the priests and priestesses chanted the final prayers, I wanted to jump and cheer and laugh. It was my family’s proudest moment! I drank it all in — the masses cheering; the white-robed Priests of Serapis chanting over bowls of smoky incense; the long-haired Priestesses of Isis extending their thin arms to the sky; the sweet fragrance of flowers as countless petals swirled around us, floating through the air like tiny perfumed birds. It was all so beautiful, almost magical. The Triumph of the Ptolemies! The greatest moment of our lives.

  But the gods would not stand for us to have such happiness for long. And so began the slow, excruciating process of our undoing.

  CHAPTER TWO

  At the celebration banquet that evening, I shared a dining couch with my twin, Alexandros; his betrothed, Iotape; and my little brother, Ptolly. We were to the left of Mother and Tata’s couch, a position of high honor in acknowledgment of our new titles. My parents, of course, took the center couch, the most honored position of the feast.

  We celebrated under the stars in the massive open courtyard of our Great Palace, joined by the glittering nobility of Alexandria. Silken couches seemed to fill every intsa of the square. The air vibrated with the sounds of cheering, laughter, and drunken toasts. Nearly naked
boys and girls danced to the rhythm of wandering flute and lyre players, twirling and tumbling in and out of the labyrinthine assemblage of couches and low tables. Servants paraded tray after tray of pungent roasted meats, steamed fishes, and ripe cheeses.

  My belly was so full, the night so warm — I fought the drowsiness that threatened to overwhelm me, occasionally sitting up to refresh myself. Ptolly had already given in to sleep, despite heroic efforts to keep it at bay. His head lolled on my shoulder.

  Nafre, Ptolly’s nurse, bent over him to pick him up. “Come, come,” she murmured to him, but Ptolly clung to my arm. Nafre smiled in apology.

  “Ptolly, you must go with Nafre,” I said, putting my mouth near his flushed cheek so that he could hear me. His curly hair was damp with sweat.

  “Stay!” he whined, barely opening his eyes. “Stay with Klee-Klee.”

  I sat up to peel his arms off me and noticed a silver band on his plump wrist. A dull pearl sat in the center of a filigreed Eye of Horus. Nafre took Ptolly, and I turned toward Alexandros.

  “Give me your wrist,” I commanded. He held out an arm, his eyes following the dancers that tumbled near our couch. “No, the other one!”

  He turned to me, and I examined his arm in bewilderment. He too wore a cuff with a large and heavy Eye of Horus in the center. The dullness of the eye’s pearl gave it a look of unsettling menace. “Where did you get this?” I asked close to his ear.

  “Mother,” Alexandros almost shouted so I could hear. “She gave it to me right before the banquet.” He turned away to face the dancers, as Iotape on his other side smiled shyly at him.

  I looked toward my parents’ couch. Mother lay on her left side, holding a golden goblet in her right hand. She took small sips while her eyes raked over the assemblage. I saw no Eye of Horus on her, but only her favorite band, a golden snake with emerald eyes twining around her upper arm. Father did not sip — he gulped, signaling for his wine cup to be refilled each time it emptied. I looked at his wrist and saw no band, but on his fingers flashed a conspicuously large Eye of Horus ring.

  Why had Tata and my brothers gotten these gifts from Mother and not me? How unfair! I stood to confront her. But before I could march over to my parents’ couch, a strong hand covered my left shoulder.

  “What are you doing, Little Moon?” Katep, my royal eunuch, asked. “I do not like the look on your face.”

  He put his ear near my mouth so he could hear me, and I breathed in the spicy-sweet scent of sandalwood and cinnamon that always puffed from his silken robes.

  “I want to know why I did not receive a special Eye of Horus!” I said. “Everyone has one but me!”

  Katep furrowed his brow. “You were going to ask the queen this? Now? You cannot disturb her during the feasting!”

  I rose on my toes and looked over his round shoulders to see Mother speaking with the head of one of the noblest families in Alexandria.

  “Cleopatra Selene, you must come with me,” Katep said, taking me by the shoulders to turn me away from my parents’ couch. “You know how the queen feels about the royal children drawing attention to themselves.”

  I had begun to dig in my heels, but at that I paused. Yes, Mother took our behavior in public very seriously. Mother turned to me in that instant, almost as if she sensed my agitation. She studied my face, and for a strange moment her eyes shone pale like the deadened Eye of Horus amulets she’d given my brothers. Was that a warning? An omen? I let Katep escort me out.

  Much later, in the deepest-dark of night, after I no longer heard the sounds of celebration, I sat up, burning to find out why I had been denied such a powerful amulet. I listened for Zosima’s heavy breathing, then slid from my silken couch onto the cold marble, inching my way out into the hallway. I expected Katep to rise from his bench across the hall, but it was empty. Good. He would have tried to stop me.

  “Ah!” a voice said. “I was warned to expect this.” A young Roman soldier emerged from the darkness.

  “Expect what?” I asked in my formal Latin, proud of my improvement in the language, as I knew it pleased Tata.

  “A roaming princess.”

  “Oh,” I said, walking around him.

  “Wait! Princess …” The soldier scrambled in front of me, his sword belt slapping against his thigh, the leather straps of his breastplate creaking. “Where are you going?”

  “To see my mother the queen. And you shall not enter her wing, for you do not have special permission.” I did not know if this was true, but I said it as if it were. Even at that age, I had learned that anything said with uncompromising authority almost always resulted in instant obedience. And, of course, I was full of myself. Had I not just been named queen of Cyrenaica and Crete?

  “Fine,” the guard grumbled. “I will let the queen’s guards deal with you, then. I am not a babysitter for spoiled Egyptian children.”

  The Roman guard in Mother’s wing — where were her Royal Macedonian Guards and eunuchs? — appeared to have helped himself to an extra wineskin or two. He had slid down the painted column in the entranceway, his legs splayed, his helmet covering his eyes.

  Soft, flickering light pooled under the door to Mother’s chambers. I moved closer, not sure what to do. If there was light and a partially open door, it meant Katep could request permission for me to enter. If there was no light, it meant Mother was sleeping and I was to return to my rooms. But there was light and a closed door.

  I heard Mother’s clear voice on the other side: “Why give him time to prepare? You should attack Octavianus now, when he is weak.”

  That name again. Octavianus. Who was he?

  “De eis me audite!” came a gruff, familiar voice. Tata! “A victory in Parthia will remind Rome that I fought alongside Julius Caesar and should have been left in charge, not that little verpa. Then everybody will acknowledge me as the rightful ruler and see him for what he really is …”

  “… a little man with a tiny verpa?” Mother asked, and they both laughed.

  A bubble of laughter gurgled up my throat too. I did not understand her words, but her tone told me she had said something naughty. I found myself leaning toward the sound of their laughter like a Nile palm curving over the water, my fingers pressing against the dark painted wood, my forehead grazing the cool door.

  Silence on the other side. Without warning, the door swung open with a boom, the heavy wood crashing against the marble walls. I yelped in surprise and stumbled backward, barely blinking before I felt the cool tip of a broadsword under my chin.

  “Who dares spy on us?” Father roared, his teeth bared like a lion. He looked terrifying, like Zeus-Amun in a rage, ready to strike me down. I stood with my arms out for balance, my chin tipped up under the cold metal, breathing in gasps. I heard the sound of scrambling feet and jingling armor as the soldier who had been sleeping in the hall scurried over to us, the unmistakable sound of another sword being drawn.

  The cold metal moved away from my face. Tata looked at me with wide eyes. “Cleopatra Selene?”

  Mother made a noise in her throat that I could not decipher. Surprise? Anger? Father grabbed my upper arm and dragged me into the room as if I weighed no more than a linen doll. He released me and slammed the door behind me so hard, the silver wine goblets vibrated on the ivory-topped table.

  “Child,” he growled. “What were you doing? I could have killed you.”

  I took in a ragged breath, rubbing my arm where he had grabbed me. For a moment, I wondered if I had wet myself and prayed that I had not. I could not bear humiliating myself in front of Mother like that. Do not cry, do not cry. Queens do not cry.

  “Here,” Mother said to Tata as she handed him a tunic. Tata slipped it over his head, and it was only then that I realized he’d had no clothing on. Mother stood with her hair cascading down her shoulders, wearing only her emerald snake band. She reached for a gauzy robe the blue-green color of our ocean in midsummer, slipped it on, and settled onto the curved anteroom couch in one elegant move, li
ke a cat pouring itself onto a sunny spot.

  Father went over to the small table by the wall and picked up a wine goblet with a shaking hand. He took several big gulps.

  “Where is Katep?” Mother asked me.

  I did not answer for I did not know.

  “Who is Katep?” Tata asked.

  “Her royal eunuch and guard,” Mother said, still looking at me.

  “Ah,” he said. “I dismissed all your guards.”

  Mother whipped her head toward Tata. “You what?”

  “My men secure the exterior and patrol the halls. I do not need a harem of eunuchs and effeminate, painted men cluttering up my home.”

  “Marcus, this is my palace, my domain. You had no right …,” Mother said through clenched teeth.

  He smiled his most charming smile, his eyes twinkling. “Relax, darling. I have things under control.”

  Mother’s greenish-gold eyes blazed. I always thought of her face as softer without her ceremonial paint — which one of her ladies, either Charmion or Iras, must have scrubbed off after the feasting — but not in that moment. If Mother had been staring at me that way, I feared I would have burst into flame. I picked at the hem of my sleeping tunic, curling my toes on the cold floor, staring wide-eyed at what felt like the crackling energy between my parents, not knowing what to say or do.

  Tata must have taken in a lot of wine at once, because as soon as he put his goblet down, he belched loudly. The sound was so unexpected that I giggled. Mother’s eyes turned to me. I hated when she looked at me that way — as if I had both surprised and disappointed her. To my horror, tears filled my eyes.

  “Come here,” Father said to me as he sat down on a silk-covered bench across from Mother. He picked me up and placed me on his lap. His eyes were red and shadowed, his cheeks bristly. He smelled of wine and of the rosemary coronet he had worn earlier at the banquet.