Page 153 of Cleopatra

“Pharaoh,” he said, “have you heard the news? Octavian will be upon us this night.”

I nodded. “Yes. You must leave the city. You have been too loyal to me—Octavian will not let you live.”

Faunus began to argue, but I would not hear of it. I held out a hand to silence his protestations.

“I ask one more thing of you only. Send a missive to Octavian. Tell him I have died by my own hand in the Temple of Isis. I wish to lure his eyes away from the shoreline.”

“But it will be a ruse? Yes? You will leave Egypt?”

“He will need to see a body. Or he will never stop looking for me.”

“Pharaoh—”

“You were a great advisor to me, Faunus. Live out the rest of your life knowing I treasured you well.”

Then I left. I did not have the strength to linger on any more goodbyes.

—

I locked the doors of my temple and sequestered myself inside. I removed the jar of wolfsbane from my medicine bag and added it to a chalice of wine that had been left as an offering to my god. I placed the tincture next to the flickering rushlight, to warm the wine and brew the herbs. I wished for a quick death, so I wanted the poison to be potent. Then I kneeled before my goddess and prayed.

“Isis, you have deemed me unworthy of my divine power and for that I know I must repent. But I ask you one final thing: look over my children. They are unblemished by the horrors of this world. Do not let my failures condemn them. Please, Isis, protect them.”

The tears came then. Floods of them. I do not know how long I cried for. But I was only aware of the time when there came a great knocking at the door of the temple.

Octavian is here.

I reached for the wolfsbane tincture and was suddenly reminded of my brother.

Guilt, as I told you, accompanies me even in death.

But as I opened my mouth to welcome the end, I heard a scream. It was a voice I recognised.

“Marcus?”

I ran to the temple door and pulled up the wooden bar that held it in place.

There in the dappled moonlight was Antonius.

“Marcus, what are you doing here?” He was kneeling before the door to the temple, his head tilted to the side.

But as I drew closer, I saw that he was slumped forward, his hand gripping the hilt of a small dagger that was buried in his chest.

“Marcus!”

Blood spilled from his mouth as he murmured, “Selene, Isis, Cleopatra. All the names I have known you by. But you are Egypt. You are her. And Egypt, I am dying.”

“I am here.” I pulled him into the safety of the temple. Then I relocked the door.

I laid him flat before the image of Isis.

“What have you done, Marcus?” I saw then that the ivory dagger he had used to end his life was the one I had gifted him. Or rather, the blade Charmion had gifted me.

“I arrived with the infantry; they are half a day’s ride away. Too late, I had thought I was too late,” he said weakly. Blood seeped from his chest. He did not have long. “I read your letter. A cruel joke to pen it on obsidian.” Even now he laughed. The sound was sharper than a blade in my heart, and it hurt just as much.

Centuries have passed but I cannot recall this moment without smiling, without crying. That was the dichotomy of my dear Marcus. There was no one who could make me laugh or weep harder than he.

“You were not meant to die this day, Marcus. Why did you do this?”