need Euphronius to bring poison to her. We keep it everywhere.”
Agrippa glanced over at the colorful glass bottles then back at us, horrified. Motioning to a soldiers behind him, he said, “Get rid of that. Dump it in the Nile and let the Egyptians drink Cleopatra’s venom.”
The soldiers collected each harmless vial as if it contained a monster that might be unleashed with the cork. Their fear and loathing of poisons, potions, and magic was evident to me even then. If only I’d known how to use it against them. “So, your mother did die of poison?” Agrippa pressed.
I wasn’t sure why it was important how my mother died, but the fact the Romans wanted to know meant that they shouldn’t find out. I resolved to give nothing away, but Helios said, “She died by snakebite, which made her immortal. You can’t hurt her now.”
I wanted desperately to throttle him. Throughout our childhood, my twin’s compulsive truth telling had gotten me in trouble, but now the stakes were so much higher. What would the Romans do to me if they found out that I’d delivered the snake to her concealed in a basket of figs?
Perhaps Agrippa sensed my fear. “Girl, is this true? Did Euphronius bring Cleopatra a serpent?”
“My mother always had serpents with her,” I said, and prayed my brothers wouldn’t contradict me. “Three cobras adorn her headdress. My mother made them come to life whenever she wished. She said it would bring her to my father. Euphronius is only our tutor—he knows all the tongues, even the holy ones—but he’s not a snake handler or a poisoner.”
I said the last in Latin, because it seemed very important that the Roman understand me, and Agrippa blinked in surprise. Had he expected us to be unschooled barbarians? I was the daughter of a Roman triumvir; I spoke Greek, Latin, and many other languages.
“So, your story is that Cleopatra made a snake magically appear from her headdress and used it to end her life?”
“Yes,” I said with conviction.
After all, Egypt was famed for snake magic. My mother had been a powerful magician and I’d seen her turn staves into snakes for our amusement. But when it came time to die, she’d had me bring her the serpent. If the Romans found that out, would they kill me too?
“It would have taken two cobras to kill her and her handmaidens together . . .” Agrippa’s face seemed unbearably close to my own. His Roman breath was like vinegar.
“It was two, then,” I said, remembering the coiling motion in the basket. Perhaps there had been two. Perhaps the snakes had been lovers, or siblings or twins. I dared not look at mine.
Agrippa sneered at me. “When I have the old warlock crucified and he screams a different tale, do you think I won’t return to make an end to your miserable, spoiled little lives?”
I felt dizzy because I knew crucifixion was a terrible death that the Romans used to prolong suffering. “Please don’t hurt Euphronius. He is just an old man!”
“He’s a magician and a priest of Isis,” Agrippa growled. “The Isiac priesthood is nothing but a den of witches, warlocks, and whores. Curse the day a soldier like Antony fell into their clutches.” At the mention of my father, Agrippa’s features twisted with sadness and regret. It took him a moment to recover, and when he did, he changed the subject entirely. “Where is Caesarion?”
At last, Helios and I exchanged glances. This question was unexpected and we both knew what it meant. If the Romans didn’t know where Caesarion was, my oldest brother had escaped, after all. My heart soared with hope.
“The King of Egypt is in exile,” Helios said.
“In exile where?” Agrippa asked.
“We don’t know where,” I replied. For that much was true. But wherever he was, Caesarion would raise an army to rescue us. Men would rally to him in the name of his dead father, Julius Caesar—the real Caesar.
Agrippa seemed to know it. “Is Caesarion still here in Alexandria? Will you tell me or will I have to burn down every house in the city to find him?”
The way Agrippa’s face was lined with rage convinced us he was willing to do just that, so I said, “We don’t know where he is. My mother wouldn’t tell us.” And I tried not to betray my smugness. Julius Caesar had been invincible in battle, falling only to the knives of treasonous assassins. Would not the gods shine on his son? Caesarion would save us!
Agrippa growled. “If you’re lying to me, I’ll see you crucified, royalty or no. Your mother’s last wish was for an honorable funeral and to be interred beside your father. For reasons that escape me, my lord has granted her request. Were it up to me, I’d dump her body in the Nile for the crocodiles and you children along with her.”
Just then, Agrippa’s eyes drifted to the far wall where a banner hung beside my mother’s bed. Upon that banner was emblazoned our Ptolemy family motto: Win or Die.
I had been looking in the wrong place for a note from my mother. It was not among her papers but here, on the wall, a message for her enemies, and for her children both. Beneath it, we stood as regal as my mother expected us to be. Knowing that Caesarion was alive, we stared at Agrippa as if he were contemptible rabble. The gods would smite him as surely as he breathed.
Helios took my hand, protectively, and I held Philadelphus in my other arm. We stood before the Roman, staring, but silent. We were Ptolemies.
“You’re unnatural,” Agrippa said. With that, the admiral slammed out of my mother’s chambers leaving behind him wood splinters, blood, and frightened children.
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