Cleopatra did not plan to leave her enemies for long. Just long enough to put them at ease, to make them think themselves safe.

She’d once felt safe.

A soft sound made her spin, searching the darkness for soldiers, but all she saw was a dog wandering the open area, its ribs visible, its nose pressed to the ground. It raised its head and looked toward her with a dry whine. She would not kill an animal, not now.

No. This was a city full of Romans, and she could smell them, feel them, and hear them everywhere.

This was a city of betrayers, too. Her son had been under the protection of one of them. At least she might avenge herself on him.

She picked her way over the cobblestones, watching bats flying about the sky, listening to birds shrieking their hunting calls. Eventually, she stood at the Museion’s gates. With one leap, she was over them and inside the courtyard.

Another few steps and she stood outside an open window, inhaling the history of Rhodon, Caesarion’s tutor. The scent of libraries, of languages learned and forgotten. The scent of gold, of promises, of ambition.

A lantern flickered in his window, and the man packed his bag, preparing to leave for Rome. Cleopatra stood in the dark, watching him for a moment. Rhodon’s robes were finer than they had hitherto been. She saw a gleam of gold beneath his linen and the ruddy flush of good health on his face. Her son’s sacrifice had made him rich.

When he stepped out into the courtyard, his step jaunty, his jingling bag slung over his shoulder, she was waiting for him.

An hour later, east of Alexandria, she slipped into a seaside bar, listening to the jokes and shouts of drinking men.

“A felucca?” she called, showing only her arm from out of her cloak, having veiled the rest. In her hand, she held a piece of gold, stolen from her victim. Cleopatra’s own face was printed on one side with her name. The reverse was Antony. They’d laughed when they saw them for the first time. She’d thought him far more handsome than the coin would suggest, and he’d felt the same about her image, though her profile had conveyed power.

She held the coin tightly in her hand, letting the image of Antony’s face press into her flesh. In better days, she’d traveled to her beloved in her own golden barge, a purple silk sail stretched above the ship, and the sides fitted with silver oars. Now, she was reduced to hiring a rickety felucca with a drunken captain.

A man approached her, his eyes gleaming for gold, and she withdrew it into her cloak.

“You will take me to Thebes,” she told him. “Immediately. There will be more when we arrive.”

She saw him smirk at his fellows, telling them wordlessly that he’d love to take a woman aboard his vessel. To Thebes? Hardly. Thebes was days away. They’d have to proceed east along the Mediterranean, to the Canopic branch of the Nile. He’d take her a few miles down the river and see how long it took her to spread her legs.