Page 26 of Cleopatra

But Charmion was still pointing.

Then I saw it, gleaming against the dirt that had grown dark with the hakawati’s blood—the ivory dagger.

“Ahmose. Bring it to me.”

He handed it to me hilt first. And as he did, he spoke quietly in my ear. “I do not think this was an opportune attack, Pharaoh. I believe this was planned. He knew you journeyed this way.”

The hakawati’s final words came back to me with clarity: “You are powerless and not fit to rule.”

First the scholar and now this. Isis, grant me your favour so I may prove the non-believers wrong.

But no divine light struck me or glowed from my hands. So I had to make do with what I had. “Bring my lions to the gymnasium. Draw in a crowd. Then feed his body to my beasts.”

Though vengeance surged in my veins, I was sickened by the thought of the hakawati’s ravaged body. I still could not stomach violence. I am not sure when I grew numb to the fear of gore and pain. Perhaps you will recognise the moment in the pages to come.

I took the dagger from Ahmose’s hand and wiped the bloodied edge against the hem of my dress. I made to pass it to Charmion. “This is your treasure now, Charmion.”

She flinched as she replied, her words stretching the stitches, “It is yours. I am your shield. Let this be your blade.”

I had held tears back until this moment, but now hot droplets fell onto my cheek. I dashed them away and tucked the dagger into the folds of my dress as I climbed into the litter.

Charmion leaned heavily against me. This time the movement of the litter did not lull her to sleep.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Each footfall felt like the beat of a heart.

A heart that beats still.

Chapter Six

48 BCE

“he Buchis bull at Hermonthis has died.”

I looked up from my plate to find Pothinus standing in the doorway of my dining chamber. His linen robe was streaked with fresh sweat, as if he had run here from the throne room.

Theos, who sat next to me, almost dropped his goblet. “So soon?” he whispered.

It had only been three years since my father and I had attended the enthronement of the Buchis bull. The animal was the embodiment of the god Montu, a powerful and important symbol to the people of his cult. It was the last royal ceremony my father had participated in before he died.

“Have they begun the funerary rites?” I asked calmly, despite my breath becoming shallower. This was yet another bad omen.

It had been a season since the hakawati had attempted to strike me down. The story had spread like a plague of boils across the city, growing more bulbous and putrid with each retelling. I had attempted to temper it by seeding the rumour that my power had manifested as the ability to heal. The needle and thread were nowhere to be found in the tale I had planted amongst the hakawati I hired—and vetted—across the city.

No, Charmion’s scar was a gift from godtouched hands.

To reinforce the deception, I made public my work in the library, publishing two books on the healing properties of different plants. I thought my efforts were working, but I was not scrupulous enough to see that the outbreak of hearsay was being spread from behind the walls of the palace.

Pothinus brought out a small cloth to wipe his forehead. “Yes, the bull was interred before the message reached me. I suggest you prepare to travel to Hermonthis immediately, as the cult leaders will be waiting for you to choose the next bull.”

Servants moved in and out of the dining chamber, replenishing platters of food: roasted boar, stuffed eels, stewed lentils. My youngest brother, now ten years of age, had finally been weaned from his nursemaids and was the only one partaking of every dish.

There were differences between him and Theos beyond the three years in age. Where the younger Ptolemy’s eyes sparkled with naivety, Theos’s watered with concern. Where the younger Ptolemy ignored the smears of food on his face, Theos worried at the corners of his lips with a linen cloth. They were mirrors of each other in looks, but the weight of the crown had compressed Theos, making his belly sink inwards and his shoulders dip so that his eyes often faced the ground.

I tried to protect him from news like this, but his childhood had been fleeting.

Arsinoe seemed wholly unaffected by the death of the gods’ vessel. Always quick to voice her thoughts, she said, “Is it not curious that the bull died so soon? The people of Egypt will find cause to blame you, Cleopatra.” She lounged in a chair to my right. In her hand she held a half-consumed duck leg, the grease running down her wrist.