Cleopatra’s tremendous form undulated helplessly, senselessly, as though the Nile had been made flesh and now stood on end before the emperor of Rome, enslaved to his will.

Usem sang the final notes of his song, and the serpent ceased weaving. She stood frozen before him, before the wounded emperor, before her stunned children, and then, with a motion like the shrugging off of a veil, her head fell back, and she collapsed onto the floor of the circus, her body naked and human once more.

She was beaten.

Usem hesitated for a moment. Around him, the wind surged insistent, whipping his garments, informing him that he must capture and kill Cleopatra now, or risk further damage. He could not leave it for Rome to do, but Usem found himself uncertain of anything. He had spent too much time looking into the queen’s eyes, had seen her there, lost and alone. He was not sure who his song had worked on, the serpent or himself. And his dagger. The poison on it had not even wounded her. What could he do?

Chrysate stepped behind Usem, remaining hidden. There was an opportunity to take what she wanted, weak as she was. Even the small spells had nearly broken her.

Auðr stayed at attention, her fingers moving in the air, spinning the greatest thread, that of the queen herself, now fallen in the dust. She’d tried again to cut it, but she could not. It was still too strong, too twined with the goddess’s. The seiðkona pulled at other tense threads, tightening them into a web. The Psylli and the Greek priestess. The shade of Antony. Panting with exertion, her chest rattling, she twisted them together with the fate of the queen. And with her own fate. Always her own fate.

Antony cursed, his legionaries beaten. Half of them were dead, and the rest had been captured by Agrippa’s men. What had he been thinking? His plan had been terribly flawed. He had failed Cleopatra, hired drunken soldiers, and not enough of them. They were scattered now, holding their heads, raving. The men had not been prepared to do what they should have done, taken Cleopatra from the circus as quickly as possible. He could not blame them. When he’d hired them, he hadn’t known she was what she was. They’d had no warning.

Augustus’s private guard surrounded Cleopatra, their spears and swords poised to attack her should she move again. Marcus Agrippa struggled to his feet, gasping for breath, lifting the emperor from the ground, wincing at the pain in his fractured arm.

The Egyptian boys ran from the stands to Cleopatra, crying out her name. Selene stayed where she was, looking down upon her mother as if frozen. Her mouth hung open, and her eyes were wet. Antony took a step toward his daughter, and then, seeing the horror on her face, he shifted and took another step down the stairs and toward his wife.

Chrysate exulted, pulling him back, her fingers laced around her holding stone. Behind her, the man in the employ of the senators stood, waiting, biding his time, even in the midst of chaos. She did not notice him.