Page 140 of Cleopatra

“The cobra is no one’s god but its own,” Antonius said, sitting alongside me on his silver throne. His words echoed my own, all those years ago in the Siwa Oasis.

One of the snakes circled its cage frantically, while the other, whose skin was a deeper copper, watched the crowd from the corner.

I knew Antonius only wished to delight me with the asps. But I found myself wondering how long they had gone without food.

Yes, it is true I felt more pity for the snakes than for the Armenian royal family. But I had an affinity with the creatures, almost an intimation of how fate would coil our legends together.

As I rested my arms on the cages, gooseflesh rose on my skin.

Antonius looked on, and I smiled at him. Satisfied that I had appreciated his gift, he turned his face to the crowd.

“People of Alexandria, I present to you the goddess Isis reborn, the Queen of Kings, Cleopatra Thea Philopator.”

I gazed upon my citizens. Ten years ago, I would never have believed this sight lay in my future. I was finally accepted by my people, who cared not for the strength of my divinity, nor which man was in my bed.

Antonius went on to announce our children’s new titles. The younger Ptolemy was made ruler of Syria, Cilicia and Phoenicia. Helios was next, and he rose from his seat as he was addressed, accepting the lands of Armenia and Media. Selene was granted Cyrene, and she bowed low as the Alexandrians chanted her name.

Caesarion was last; as Pharaoh, his rule superseded his siblings, and Antonius’s tribute was befitting. “We come now to Ptolemy Caesar, whose blood is like the finest wine. Son of the Mother of Kings, and fathered by the great Julius Caesar, there is only one country I claim in his name, though it is mighty: Rome.”

The citizens of Alexandria’s cries were thunderous. Antonius and Caesarion basked in the rapture. As I scanned the crowd, I saw someone lingering at the edge of the guard line that surrounded us.

He wore the simple linens of an Egyptian farmer, cropped short for working the fields, but loose enough not to stick to his skin in the heat. But what had caught my eye was the belt around his waist. Made of leather and embellished with metal pins, it was unique to soldiers in the Roman army.

We had many Roman soldiers in Alexandria, as Antonius and I had merged our armies, but in doing so we had neutralised the uniform, removing the belts.

The man must belong to Octavian.

“Marcus,” I called as the soldier moved closer to the gymnasium steps.

But Antonius could not hear me over the cries of the city.

I stepped down from my throne as I saw the man reach inside his tunic. Something glinted in the sun.

A knife.

“Marcus!” The concern in my voice finally made it through the cheers and he heard me.

But it was going to be too late. The soldier had already cut through the guards, taking them unawares and spraying the street with blood.

My hand flew to the ivory dagger at my throat, for I could see what was about to happen.

The soldier was aiming for Caesarion.

“No!” I screamed. He was just a step away.

Antonius sprang, withdrawing a hidden blade of his own from within the fennel stalk at his waist. The soldier was, by this time, on a level with Antonius. But as Antonius feinted towards the assassin’s heart, the assassin lurched forward towards the bottom of my throne—where Caesarion sat by my feet.

I watched the blade destined for my son glint in the sunlight.

Then I saw blood. And Caesarion fell, then lay still.

I ran to him.

“Mama?” he said with tears in his eyes. Antonius was beside me in a moment.

I looked for the wound and nearly wept when I saw that the assassin had only struck his arm.

Antonius lifted him into his arms and we ran with him through to a room in the back of the gymnasium, as our guards descended upon the would-be assassin behind us.