The Princess Of Egypt Must Die

It was hard to accept that my mother was gone. The Romans kept us locked in her chambers, surrounded by her perfumes and pearled combs. We half-expected her to burst in with passion for her latest plan; we were only now beginning to fully grasp that she’d never walk into this room again.

  Roman soldiers brought our meals and kept our servants away. We asked for Euphronius, but they refused. We didn’t know what they wanted with us; there was nothing to do but wait.

  Philadelphus slept fitfully in my mother’s bed, but Helios and I huddled together in the cushioned window seat, silent and staring out over the harbor. A breeze of salty sea air wafted the curtains around us, as we looked down upon ships from far away places like Numidia, Cappadocia, and Emesa. The ships holds were filled with ivory, gold, fine wines, frankincense, precious dyes and silk. Towering over this treasure, the Pharos lighthouse emerged from the glistening Mediterranean like an alert sentinel.

  These sights were familiar, but the sight of Roman soldiers pillaging was something new and terrible. They seized ships and bullied sailors but it was worse on land where they dragged sacks of valuables out of buildings and tromped down our gardens. Octavian would later claim that all he took from our palace was an agate cup, but my brother and I knew better; we saw the looting Romans with our own eyes.

  They showed contempt for everything they touched. They smashed my father’s statues with glee. On the steps of the Temple of Isis, one of the soldiers even lifted the leather flaps of his military skirt to piss while his comrades cheered him on. If they dared all this within the royal enclosure, I shuddered to think what they might be doing in the city itself.

  Helios and I watched, memorizing each outrage, taking a private accounting. But when Roman soldiers dragged an Isiac priestess out of the temple, tearing her clothes and passing her from man to man, I couldn’t watch anymore.

  Instead, I rifled through the papyri my mother had left behind. In all these loose sheets and pots of ink, maybe there was a note for us or a magic spell I could learn. Yet my mother had been the greatest magician in all Egypt. Now she was dead and her kingdom in the hands of her enemy, so what good was magic anyway?

  I’d sorted the papers into three piles when Helios grabbed a torch from the wall. I watched him cross the room to where my mother kept the model ship he’d given her as a gift. Helios had always loved ships; he’d made this one with his own hands. I remember how he’d worked the wood, paying meticulous attention to detail, learning from our father how each part worked. Helios was very proud of that ship.

  Now he set it aflame.

  I rushed to him in a panic. “What are you doing?”

  The toy was already on fire, its papyrus sail blackening, shriveling away to nothing. “I’d rather burn it than let the Romans take it. We should burn all of it. Everything.”

  When Helios started to thrust the torch toward the netting on the bed, I shrieked, grabbing his arm. “Stop it!” I started to cry again; I couldn’t help it. I’d brought my mother death in a basket, yet she’d called me the Resurrection. I wept. “It’s the Romans who burn everything. Not us.”

  Helios stared at me as smoke rose between us. Whether it was my tears or my words that reached him, I couldn’t be sure, but he rubbed the ashes of his destroyed boat between his fingers before snuffing out the torch.

  A few moments later, as if awakened by our argument, Philadelphus bolted upright. His eyes were wide and his auburn curls plastered to his forehead with sweat as he said, “He’s coming.”

  My twin jerked his head toward our littlest brother. “Who?”

  “A man from the sea,” Philadelphus said.

  Helios squinted at the lighthouse-illuminated harbor as if he’d missed some special ship.

  “What man from the sea?” I asked. “Philadelphus, did you have a nightmare?”

  If he answered me, I didn’t hear over the crash of the door being kicked open. The carved cedar edge splintered as it smashed against the wall and the brass handle bent with the force. The bang thundered throughout my mother’s chamber and through the hall beyond.

  Philadelphus skittered behind me for protection while Helios held his unlit torch like a club to ward off the barrel-chested Roman who stood in the doorway wearing a carved Roman helmet with a general’s crest. The stranger also wore the familiar armor of a Roman soldier, but the weathered lines of his face made him even more intimidating. When he spoke, it was in accented Greek. “So, you’re the bastard whelps of Antony?”

  Helios gasped. “How dare you?”

  With one mighty swing of his fist, the Roman struck Helios on the side of the head, knocking him to the floor and sending his torch skimming across the marble. Rough hands had never been laid upon us, and now I was more angry than frightened. “By what right do you strike my brother?” I demanded to know. “He’s King Alexander Helios of Armenia, Media, and Parthia. Have you no respect for kings?”

  “Rome has little respect for kings,” the Roman answered. “And I respect them even less.”

  By now, Helios had scrambled to his feet. The beaded belt of his tunic was askew and his golden vulture amulet swung wildly. Where the stranger had struck him, his face, neck and ear were red, but he schooled his fair features to a royal demeanor nonetheless. “It was my father, a triumvir of Rome, who made me a king.”

  “He had no right,” the stranger replied. “Your so-called kingdom Parthia isn’t even yet conquered. We should send you there and see if you can hold it, you treacherous boy.”

  Helios glared. “What treachery do you speak of, Octavian?”

  “Octavian?” The man laughed deep from his belly. “Did you think he would stoop to question the children of that woman? I’m Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa.”

  I knew this name. Agrippa had defeated my father at the naval battle of Actium and was Rome’s most able fighter. Philadelphus must have recognized Agrippa’s name too, for he tightened his grip on my skirt until I thought it would tear. Meanwhile, Agrippa folded his meaty arms, stepping closer to Helios. “Besides, when you meet your new master, you’ll address him not as Octavian but as Caesar.”

  Helios said what my mother would have. “Octavian has no right to the name Caesar. My brother, the Most Divine, King Ptolemy Caesarion, is Julius Caesar’s only son.”

  “Boy,” Agrippa began, “you’re in no position to talk of rights or quibble about titles. Caesar promised your mother that he’d torture and kill you if she took her own life. It’ll only be Caesar’s clemency that saves you now, so I suggest you call him whatever he likes.”

  “I’ll use his title if he uses mine,” Helios replied, his hubris owing as much to our upbringing as to the fact he was still a boy. He was rewarded for that hubris with a slap that brought blood to his mouth. Helios swung back at the giant but missed. Then Agrippa grabbed Helios by his golden hair and seemed ready to beat him in earnest.

  “Please don’t hurt my brother!” Philadelphus cried.

  I had to do something, but what? “Lord Agrippa!” I shouted. Though my hands trembled, I clutched the amulet my mother had given me and adopted my most adult voice. “You’ve introduced yourself. Permit me to do the same. I’m Cleopatra Selene, Queen of Cyrenaica.”

  “Girl, I didn’t address you.” The Roman clenched his fist, ready to strike Helios.

  I hid my shaking hands. “Nonetheless, you’re a guest in our royal palace, and I insist that you behave like one.”

  Agrippa peered at me from beneath the crest of his helmet then released Helios with a shove. “How old are you?”

  “Nearly eleven,” I said.

  “You don’t speak like a child.”

  “I speak like a queen.” Or so I hoped. “How can We help you, Lord Agrippa?”

  I had used the royal We and the brute of a man seemed disarmed. “You can tell me how your mother managed to cheat Rome of seeing her dragged through the streets in chains. We know you were with her before she died. Who helped her?”

  I did, I thought, and my knees went weak wi
th fear.

  Several Roman guards crowded near the doorway. They didn’t enter but seemed to pay close attention to what was said behind their veneer of professional disinterest. But I didn’t answer Agrippa’s question. I couldn’t answer.

  As if to coax me, Agrippa said, “Caesar allowed your father an honorable burial and Queen Cleopatra promised not to kill herself. She broke her bargain. So who helped her? How did she do it? Was it poison?”

  My heart thumped dully in my chest but I tried not to react. Philadelphus peeked at me, but I dared not meet his eyes. Helios and I stood like statues, a conspiracy of silence between us.

  Agrippa removed his polished helmet, tucking it under one arm. Its gleam reflected a distorted image of my silent green eyes back at me. “We already have Euphronius in custody. It was the old warlock that brought her poison, wasn’t it?”

  I envisioned our frail old wizard chained in the jail, and I shuddered. Still, if they were questioning us about Euphronius’s guilt, they must doubt it. So we still said nothing.

  A light breeze rustled the netting over my mother’s bed.

  A soldier coughed in the hall.

  An oil lamp flickered.

  “Don’t you want to prove your worth to Caesar now?” Agrippa asked. “Your mother’s deception does her no honor.”

  But the fact she’d deceived the enemy inspired me. With my eyes, I motioned toward the cosmetics on my mother’s dressing table. “My mother wouldn’t