He took a deep breath and nodded to his centurion. He would not do this dirty thing himself. The crowd screamed with bloodlust, recognizing the gesture.

“Traitor!” they cried, and pushed closer, some of them attacking each other in their excitement.

His men raised their shields in a ceremonial gesture, and he searched the crowd one last time. No one. Only an old woman wrapped from head to toe in rough veils struck his eye, and she was at the farthest edge of the throng, pushing her way forward. Not the queen.

Octavian glanced toward the boy, questioning his haste in condemning him. Scarcely Cleopatra’s son at all. Far more the son of Caesar. He looked toward his advisors, wondering what excuse he could use to render this afternoon forgotten, wondering how he would calm the crowd should he not give them what they expected.

Just then, the boy’s eyes blazed open, and he lurched in the grip of the centurion, flinging his arms upward and his body back. He kicked and connected with the older man’s leg, and the centurion lost his hold. Caesarion began to run, launching himself off the platform like a gazelle, and even in such dire circumstances, Octavian could only look upon him in wonder.

Here was a warrior. Everyone had seen his bravery. The boy was a credit to his father’s country. Octavian moved his hand to call the execution off.

“Pardon him!” he managed, but the noise of the crowd was too loud.

They surged forward, fists in the air, throwing punches and bellowing, surrounding the boy.

“Kill him!” they shouted, and Octavian’s centurion, now recovered, leapt off the platform with a roar of fury.

19

People kicked about Cleopatra, pulling and tugging at her robes. The scent of flesh seared her nostrils. She inhaled deeply, feeling the press of limbs against hers, the weight of bodies. Her fingers curled, hidden beneath her robe. Cleopatra could almost see the emperor, almost see his intended victim, whoever it was. She pushed her way forward, craning her neck for a view.

She hungered, troubled by the gaps in her memory. Surely, she had last eaten weeks ago, before Antony’s death. She’d dined with her love, that was it. The night before he died.

But somehow, she was not certain of that. There were flashes in her mind that felt like memory, pale skin, blood trickling.

The last light of the sun shone directly on the shields ahead, reflecting into her eyes. Her wrappings were not enough to keep it from burning. She felt weak, with both hunger and heat, her skin sparking beneath its coverings, her eyes filling. She needed to get out of the light, but there was nowhere to go. She pushed herself deeper into the crowd toward Octavian.

Odd. She caught a glimpse of someone she knew, close to the platform. It couldn’t be he, though. Rhodon the tutor was long gone, to Myos Hormos with her son Caesarion. She was mistaken.