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In the hours just before dawn, Mudjet and I readied ourselves to leave. We each had a small pack with some extra clothing, that was all. It seemed silly to bring anything else. I left behind any jewelry I might have bribed a servant to steal from my old rooms and contented myself only with my mother's bracelet. When Titus appeared with a contingent of legionaries, we were prepared.
The ship was moored at the royal harbor, only a short distance from the palace steps. There, several other vessels were being loaded with captured soldiers from my army and local animals to entertain the people of Rome. Standing on Titus’ arm looking out over the onyx waves, I did not see Caesar come up from the docks to meet us, only the slap of the tribune’s salute against his breastplate caught my drifting attention.
Wrapped in his traveling cloak, the Consul gave me his characteristic wry smile and a somewhat unseriously gallant bow as he held out his hand to me. I hesitated for a moment, then let go of Titus’ arm and allowed Caesar’s long fingers to arrest mine. He held my hand while I descended the worn stairs to him as if he still harbored concern for my health. Once I reached his side, he gave me a satisfied tilt of his head before smoothly tucking my hand in the crook of his elbow to lead us to our ship.
As we walked across the long dock, I returned inward to my own thoughts until Mudjet tapped my shoulder and drew my gaze to the south towards the city. I turned my head and stopped in my tracks as if bewitched, dragging Caesar to halt at my side. Normally at this hour Alexandria was still asleep, even the bakers had not risen yet. But on this morning, from dozens of windows and even from some of the few scattered rooftops that survive my rebellion, the flickering light of oil lamps burned in the nascent morning. The flitting shadows brought a faint glow against the wounded buildings still scarred by Ptolemy's fire. As my eyes adjusted to the play of the light, I glimpsed the outline of people standing by the lamps. They remained silent as they stood and slowly, I could make out that they raised a hand each toward the harbor.
Mudjet took my free hand and squeezed it. "The farewell of kings, my lady,” she whispered reverently.
I knew this, and that was why my ka ached. Alexandria had awoken early to see me off as if I was a pharaoh on my funeral sledge. I questioned whether a defeated queen had earned such an honor, but I brought it inside of my heart to keep me warm in the long nights to come. I glanced in the palace's direction and wondered if Cleopatra was awake to witness this. Afraid of her anger that already rested heavily on the city, I did not dare signal to my people in return, though I knew they and I understood each other without word or gesture. Instead, I closed my eyes and said a prayer in my ka for this ancient, luminous land and its courageous inhabitants. I prayed for them and the difficult days ahead of us all.
I opened my eyes again and turned to apologize to the Consul, but he was not looking at me. His enigmatic eyes were fixed on the lamps in the distance, his face drawn into a frown of contemplation. I understood him enough now to know he was not angry, only thoughtful. Though of what he was thinking I could not guess. A vain corner of my heart wanted to ask him if he was not in fact impressed, but I smiled to myself at my own foolishness. Caesar knew Alexandria thought me a goddess, yet what kind of Roman would he be to believe such a story?
I lowered my head deferentially. “The tide comes for us, my lord,” I said.
My voice recalled him with a start and his watchful eyes studied me rather than Alexandria. After a long moment, he nodded. “Indeed. The morning must nearly be upon us, seeing how the city is wakeful.”
I made no reply, even though I was hardly deceived by his nonchalant tone, nor by the studious indifference of his men as they helped us aboard the ship and began to stow the last of our cargo. We stood to the side as the sailors shook out the sails and began loosening the ropes. Once the helmsman steered the boat out into the greater waters of the harbor, we were taken into the hull where we settled in for the voyage north.
––––––––
I find myself back in my prison cell. I sit with my back against the cool wall and watch as the dimmest light of early morning peeks through. I am lost in thought contemplating how I shall have to see the last handful of mornings I have before me like this, through prison bars, when I feel a tug on the hem of my shift. I look down at my feet and see a large scarab beetle pulling at the linen as he ambles haphazardly across its folds.
I pick him up and hold him in the palm of my hand so we may look at one another face to face, his glossy black shell gleaming even in the dim light.
"Hello, Ptolemy-daughter," he says to me, waggling his antennae in a friendly way.
"Greetings to You, Lord of Daybreak," I reply, for I hold Khepri in my hand. He is small but mighty, for he is one of Father Ra's many forms. As the god of sunrise, he takes the form of a scarab to roll the sun across the sky, to banish the night once more to the underworld.
"I come to remind you that you are not alone as you leave our shores,” the small god says, lifting his shell to flutter the wings beneath it. “We go with you to the land of wolves. Even if you cannot see us."
"I am sorry I failed to secure victory for the holy gods of Egypt, my lord."
"Mountains have birthed themselves from the sea, rose, and crumbled into dust in the blink of our Eye, Ptolemy-daughter. We shall endure because we have no end. Yet that does not mean we value not your courage. I climb into the sky every morning to bring hope to our people because duplicitous Set defeats the beast Apep every night. He can be treacherous and our savior, just as you can be defeated and still victorious."
"I wish I could wear you in my hair for strength my Lord, until all is over,” I confess, the kindly little beetle’s attention drawing this admission from me.
Khepri clicks his mandibles sympathetically. "I would, child, but I am not a god of death. I am here to create you from the ashes of your resurrection. Be who you were destined to be and be reborn before the eyes of the Latins."
And then I wake up.
––––––––
We sat below decks until we gained our sea legs and then walked the length of the under-galley back and forth to pass the days. We chattered in Egyptian, and I tried to improve my Latin by conjugating with Titus when he was free. We lay atop our bedding in the summer’s growing heat, and huddled under our blankets when errant storms blew up.
One clearer evening, we received permission to go above deck for some fresher air. The breeze felt heavy with salt as it brushed by us to fill the sails flapping over our heads. We were too far out to see any islands, so there was nothing around the fleet except the seemingly endless blue of the sea. Mudjet busied herself airing out some of our linens and I stood at the rail listening to the lapping of the waves against our boat and the distant sounds of work from the other ships. Someone somewhere was singing an old sea song.
"It goes without saying that you are not permitted to throw yourself overboard,” said Caesar’s voice casually, cutting through the melody of the distant singer.
I looked back at him, standing a little ways behind me. "I suppose it does not speak highly of me that I had not even considered that," I answered with a resigned shrug.
He grinned like a wolf and moved forward to join me at the rail. We stood silently staring out at the opaque water. After a time he asked, "Would you have done it?"
In the light of his last statement, I did not need to ask what he meant. "I do not know. Pharos already feels like another life. A dream. We do many things in dreams we would not dare in the Waking World."
"I'm not sure I believe there is much that you would not dare if pressed, Your Highness,” he said, meeting my eye; his, as usual, difficult to read.
I shrugged again. "Perhaps that is true. Perhaps our dreams only reveal the people we are meant to be."
"If one believes in one's dreams,” he pointed out, a trace of skepticism hanging on his words.
I glanced off in the other direction, smiling to myself before returning his gaze. "Oh, one must always be watchful of those who believe in their dreams, my lord,” I replied, my eyes no doubt full of the saucy mischief that used to earn me such censure from Pothinus. “They are the most dangerous of beings, for what could they not be capable of?"
Not waiting for his answer, I tucked a loose curl of hair behind my ear and left Caesar in my wake as I went to help Mudjet with our sundries.
––––––––
Latium was in full thrall to summer when we docked in the town of Ostia. The balmy lands of Rome were gripped by heat and humidity nearly as strong as those in an Egyptian summer. The marshy inlets that surrounded the port bred stench and disease in the hot months, but it was here that the river of the Romans, the ancient Tiber, came to embrace the sea.
Caesar did not wish to create a spectacle by keeping me in Rome proper, so we were placed in a small country house in Ostia’s outskirts with a small contingent of guards and a few slaves to handle the domestic chores, making the board and fare much improved from our confinement back home. Titus was among those allowed to remain with us and we prodded him for news while we tried to assist him with his suit for the hand of a local nobile’s daughter.
A few weeks after our departure, the Queen of Egypt gave birth to a boy, my nephew. He was anointed Ptolemy Caesar, Prince of Egypt, but it did not take long for everyone to call him Caesarion — little Caesar. Cleopatra was equally quick to illustrate any way, large or small, where the infant prince resembled his alleged father, though Caesar appeared to remain aloof. He allowed the boy to use his name, yet he made no attempt to formally recognize him. Nor did he seem to be in any hurry to return to Egypt to see the child. We puzzled about this state of affairs, conveyed to us by Titus.
"Is it because Caesarion would not be recognized as a Roman citizen?" I asked him, carding wool for Mudjet to wind.
"I don't think so,” Titus replied while rolling a pear between his palms. “That might be the case, but Caesar would probably have the power to grant the prince citizenship if he desired to.”
"Does the Queen know that?" Mudjet joined in, looking up from the wool strand she was twisting into thread. “Also, would your fiancée like a shawl dyed in blue or red? I should be able to manage either.”
"Most assuredly,” he answered her. “They say she is most displeased that Caesar is not exerting himself to rectify the situation. And she is not my fiancée yet, Mudjet.”
"Tosh! She will be once you tell her of your exploits and present her with this shawl made by an exotic Egyptian handmaiden,” Mudjet answered before turning her attention to me abruptly. “The Consul is a man with no sons, no living heirs at all. He is not a young man. Why would he not do this? It makes no sense!”
I thought the question over. I thought of the secret Achillas had revealed to us so many months ago. "Because he does not trust her,” I replied slowly. “He cannot trust her and therefore he cannot trust this child of hers belongs to him.”
Titus nods. "I think you are right, Princess. To risk his dignitas in Rome for a foreign queen, my general would have to be much more sure of the character of the lady. He approves of Cleopatra because she is a sort of female mirror of himself, but that also means he knows she is capable of any deception to press an advantage."
"This much is certain, though that irony will irritate her if he is in truth the boy's father,” I remarked with a cool toss of my head.
"I think it would be wise for the Consul to make himself scarce in Egypt if he continues to be reluctant," remarked Mudjet.
"Indeed, Mudjet. I suspect that is his plan for the immediate future," agreed Titus. “Also, I believe a shade of red would be be very pretty against my fiancée’s complexion,” he added sheepishly.
––––––––
Eventually, as Titus had predicted, Caesar left Rome again on campaign, taking our tribune and the rest of his men eastward across the sea. Without the kindly Titus, we were more isolated, though we could not grudge him the opportunity to earn the glory in war that we were certain would surely impress the family of his betrothed.
We continued to hear snatches of gossip from the outside regardless, for Rome has never been a city of kept secrets and Ostia followed suit; how Caesar obliterated the vast holdings of the King of Pontus, how rapturous crowds fêted him in Tarsus, how my sister wrote him love letters and threw murderous tantrums if he did not respond. Which was often.
As for us, Mudjet cajoled our slaves to teach us about local herbs while we tended the small garden surrounding the house and spent countless hours in the kitchen with them, improving our Latin while they prepared our food. I tried not to cast wistful looks in the direction of the theater, knowing better than to even ask. I schemed to obtain the occasional book and we watched as the longest year of my life slowly died and was replaced by the new year.
––––––––
We were helping the slaves with the weeding in the garden one early spring day when I spied a man making his way up to the house from the winding path below. The farmhand who delivered our supplies had come hardly two days previous, and we received no other visitors, so all of us stopped our work to watch the lone figure slowly progress towards the house curiously.
"Is it Caesar?" asked Mudjet, half-rising to get a better view.
I squinted, shading my eyes with a hand. "No, that is not the way he walks. And even we would have heard that he had returned to Rome."
"Should we be concerned, do you think?"
"I do not see the point,” I sighed, shrugging. “If this man means to murder us, presumably the guards at the door will stop him. If the guards are bought, we cannot stop him anyway." I took a rag and wiped my hands. "But I think we are safe. His gait is an old one for a assassin."
The man appeared under the portico with one of our guards, and was led over to us. As I had thought, he was an older man with a prominent nose in the style of the Romans, dressed in an expertly cut tunica and toga made with very fine fabric and skill.
I realized that Mujet had perhaps been looking at his head when she mistook him for Caesar, for he had a similarly receding hairline and appeared to be of a comparable age, although the shape of their features were different upon closer inspection. His skin hung on his frame more heavily than the Consul’s and he bore the marks of a city life in Rome as Caesar did the marks of a life in war. Yet his expressive face and intelligent eyes spoke of a sort of bottled energy that he could command at will. And I was surprised to find myself sure I knew who he was, though he spoke first.
"Which of you maidens do I have the honor of addressing as the Princess of Egypt?" he asked in a mellow, solicitous voice.
I rose and brushed my unruly hair back with a hand. "I am she, sir. May I offer you a stool and some refreshments?" I motioned to some of the slaves with us to move seating into place while the others went to retrieve food and drink from the kitchen.
He made a small, elegant bow. "My lady. I am honored to make your acquaintance."
"The honor is mine, sir,” I replied, touching a hand to my chest and gesturing with the other for the gentleman to make himself comfortable.
The slaves returned with several plates of olives, bread, and cheese, accompanied by a cask of wine. Mudjet poured out two cups of wine for us and made a question with her expression as to whether I wished her to stay. I returned her unspoken query with a small inclination of my head that said I would call for her if needed, so she nodded and retreated into the villa behind the slaves, while the guard settled himself a few feet away.
I turned my attention back to my guest with a smile. "Forgive the simplicity of our offerings, sir. If I had known I would be so esteemed as to enjoy the company of such an eminent scholar, I would have demanded the Consul leave me enough provisions to toast you in the Egyptian style."
"Your Highness knows who I am?" he asked, surprised.
I nodded. "My kingdom has—” I faltered momentarily. "—had the greatest library in the world and basks in the warmth of Athens' glow. I was raised in the pursuits of the mind your people reserve solely for boys and if I am allowed some conceit, I was not an inferior pupil. The face and achievements of the distinguished former consul Cicero are well known to me.” I paused to give him a mischievous look. “Indeed, you are fortunate I have not already ransacked your person to see if you have books I may commandeer."
Marcus Tullius Cicero chuckled appreciatively. "I am deeply gratified, Your Highness, though you embarrass me with such lavish praise. I had assumed I came to you as an anonymous Roman citizen."
“An anonymous Roman citizen I would have deemed far too busy to grant me so much of his time,” I replied deprecatingly.
“You are humble, my dear,” he noted disbelievingly, shaking his head. “Not at all like what we have heard of your sister, I might add. But you are overly kind to an old man who has outlived his usefulness. I have very little to occupy my time now that Caesar has brought down the Republic.” The last he said with a tone of deep sadness, as if he had lost a revered family member.
I did not wish to see the great orator depressed in my company, so I searched for something to say that would cheer him. "Even if I had been ignorant of you before my arrival, sir, I have been here some months now and all in Ostia sing of the excellent consul who rebuilt their city by the sea when the pirates razed it to the ground."
"Ach, that was nothing," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, though I saw the hint of stroked vanity in his eyes. "There would have been nothing to rebuild if Pompey hadn't so expertly decimated the sea rats.” His eyes grew distant, remembering. “I cannot believe that was twenty years ago. You, little princess, not even born yet and Pompey now dead."
"I am sorry for that,” I said truthfully. “I had no part in the plot that took his life, but I regret that I was there and could not spare him. A man such as he did not deserve such an ignoble end."
"Few receive the ends they deserve in this world, Your Highness. We do not live in the Age of Heroes where at least occasionally we obtained our just desserts from the hand of the gods. Pompey, for all of his faults, did not deserve to be slain by those he held as friends any more than you deserve to be executed for standing against two tyrants in your own land."
I tilted my head, interested. "You hold Caesar to be a tyrant?"
He sighed. "It is difficult to say, my lady. He raises the undisciplined mob above our institutions. He may yet be turned back to the virtues of our fathers, though he carries the seeds of tyranny in his heart. With him in dictatorship, I fear for the future of our liberty."
“You wish him to be like Cincinnatus and live for a country life rather than glory,” I observed.
“Ha, perhaps that is a fair assessment. Your Highness is well-versed in our history.”
“I had a good tutor, sir.” Now it was my turn to sound melancholy.
“Yes, and a good general so I’ve heard. I am sorry for your loss,” he remarked kindly.
I gave a movement to show I was impatient with myself. “It is the way of war. I cannot fault Caesar when Fortune has favored him. Even to a sympathetic audience,” I added with a smile. “For there are many kinds of admirable men, and I would be lying if I said I could find nothing worth admiring in the Consul.”
“That is a charitable sentiment towards the author of your present circumstances, my lady.”
“My sister is the architect of my present circumstances, Caesar is merely an instrument. One does not curse the arrow shot by the bowman.”
He looked at me cleverly. “Do not think I failed to notice that you changed adjectives when you spoke of the Queen of Egypt, Your Highness.”
“I would expect nothing less from you, sir.”
“Why?”
“I modified your statement to better reflect the truth,” I explained, motioning to the garden around us. “Cleopatra’s genius constructed the prison that my life has become. But I am the author of it.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “An interesting point. However, it concerns me that you still deem Caesar an admirable man. Young people such as yourself should look to good men to admire, not those who make such questionable choices in pursuit of their own gratifications.”
“But I think you would agree all men — even those who are good — are not exactly the same,” I countered, considering my words carefully. “Just look at you and your friend Cato. I believe you both to be men of integrity, yet you are very different.”
“This is true, my lady,” he admitted with a small chuckle. “And he never failed to remind me of what a deplorable Stoic I would have made.”
“He certainly would have disapproved of you sitting here with me,” I noted drily.
“Yes, though at the same time, Cato was a young man once too, despite his old man’s brain.” He glanced at me impishly. “Did you know he once lost the hand of an heiress to Metellus Scipio?”
I laughed. “Cato might have been too serious a husband for me, and yet I suspect the heiress wishes she had chosen him over Scipio. There are two men who could not be more different.”
Cicero let out a hearty laugh of his own. “He wrote some very questionable verse over the affair and eventually convinced himself that it had not been of great importance to him either way. The way one does in those situations.” He paused. “He was a relentless thorn, though I do miss him. Every day. He would scoff at me sitting here with you not because of who you are, dear Princess, but because I sit here and rail against Caesar when I do not have the courage to sacrifice myself for the principle of the Republic as he did.”
My mind flashes back to standing on the ledge of the lighthouse. “I am the greater coward than you, sir. I was once presented with the opportunity that Cato was and I could not follow through.”
He studied my face gently. “There are things in this world worth dying for, my lady, but that does not mean you should rejoice in throwing your life away. Death absolved my dear friend of any other stake in our struggle. He might have made a glorious personal stand, though the Republic lives only as long as living men defend it. Our opposition is weaker because of his choice.”
I bit my lip. "In the end, this I cannot speak of. I hold many complaints against the Queen of Egypt and Rome's Consul in my kingdom, but our ways are different than yours. I too might have been Egypt's tyrant in your eyes."
"You fought for the liberation of your people from a foreign power. There is always nobility in that pursuit, Your Highness, even if the cause was not in my people's interest." He grinned at me, gesturing expansively. "Why do you think I have so longed to see you for myself? How could I not set eyes upon the little girl who single-handedly kept Julius Caesar at heel for so long? Our people speak of you as a second Penthesilea!"
"Now it is you who embarrass me with lavish praise, sir,” I replied with a self-conscious shrug. “I am still no warrior, and I had the help of many hands in my work. Though the mistakes and the ultimate result I will take responsibility for."
"Pompey was a statesman and general his whole life, and he was not so effective at running a campaign against Caesar as you were, my lady,” he argued stoutly. “We saw you stymie the hardest legion in Italy for six months and only fail because you were betrayed by allies, just as Pompey was. Rome will not forget that the great Caesar was nearly outwitted by a child. Your people will not let your cursed sister forget."
I looked at him quietly. "Nobility and daring did not save Penthesilea either."
"No,” he conceded, “and yet there is something to be said for the regret of Achilles, child.” He glanced at me and hesitated. “If you were not condemned to the riotous rituals we sate the plebs on,” he added slowly, “I would beg the presumption of giving you advice."
"Doom or no, I would hear the advice of a wise man such as you, Master Cicero."
I was startled to see a sort of watchful concern bloom on the orator’s previously cheerful face. "I would tell you to be on your guard, Your Highness, for no lady who bears such charming and clever mind could have possibly escaped our intrepid Consul's notice. The Egyptian Queen may think she is his Briseís because she claims to have borne his child, but he will never respect her as he will the Amazon queen who met him in battle."
I shifted uncomfortably beneath his words, and I was reminded of my arguments with Ganymedes over Achillas. “This too is beyond my ken, sir,” I said to set my guest at ease. “There is much about the Consul that is a mystery to me. I have fought him for months and I feel I know little of the man behind the general.”
“That is because while I do not hold him to be good, even I will admit he is too complicated to be a stock villain,” Cicero said with bitterness in his voice. “We would all not be in such a state if he was.” I looked at him sympathetically, which made him cough gruffly. “Bah, do not mind me, little one. I should let you enjoy what sunshine remains to you without the cloud of my regrets or those of Rome. Your way is difficult enough without your captors bleating for your commiseration.”
He rose up and I accompanied him back through the villa to the front door. “It has been a pleasure to meet you in the flesh, my lady,” he said, turning to bow over the hand I offered to him. “I sincerely wish that Caesar would pour out some of his famous mercy and spare you.”
“That is very kind of you, sir, but my sister would never allow that. Besides,” I answered, growing playful again, “Cato always believed mercy to be sinful. Perhaps the Consul is turning Stoic.”
Cicero burst out laughing. “That will be the day I know my city must be doomed by the gods!” He continued to let out a few more guffaws before growing serious once more. He briefly hesitated before taking my hand in his again impulsively and I did not resist. “However, I cannot help but believe that is one of the many things the Stoics are wrong about. May the gods keep you, Your Highness.”
“And you, sir.”