reeds, lining the road that ran from the palace to the mausoleum. They watched as our chariots passed, then one by one they dropped to their knees.
Alexander turned to me. “They should be fleeing! They should be getting as far away from here as they can!”
“Perhaps they don’t believe Octavian’s army is coming.”
“They must know. The entire palace knows.”
“Then they’re staying for us. They think the gods will hear our prayers.”
My brother shook his head. “Then they’re fools,” he said bitterly.
The dome of our family’s mausoleum rose above the horizon, perched at the rim of the sea on the Lochias Promontory. In happier times, we had come here to watch the builders at work, and I now tried to imagine what it would be like without the noise of the hammers and the humming of the men. Lonely, I thought, and frightening. Inside the mausoleum, a pillared hall led to a chamber where our mother and father’s sarcophagi lay waiting. A flight of stairs rose from this room to the upper chambers, where the sun shone through the open windows, but no light ever penetrated the rooms below, and at the thought of entering them, I shivered. The horses came to a sudden halt before the wooden doors, and soldiers parted to make way for us.
“Your Majesty.” They knelt before their queen. “What do we do?”
My mother looked into the face of the oldest man. “Is there any chance of defeating them?” she asked desperately.
The soldier looked down. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”
“Then leave!”
The men rose in shock. “And … and the war?”
“What war?” my mother asked bitterly. “Octavian has won, and while my people scrape and bow at his feet, I’ll be waiting here to negotiate the terms of my surrender.” Across the courtyard, priestesses began to scream about Octavian’s approaching soldiers, and my mother turned to us. “Inside!” she shouted. “Everyone inside!”
I gave a final glance back at the soldiers’ fear-stricken faces, then we plunged in. Within the mausoleum, the summer’s heat vanished, and my eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. Light from the open door illuminated the treasures that had been taken from the palace. Gold and silver coins gleamed from ivory chests, and rare pearls were strewn across the heavy cedar bed that had been placed between the sarcophagi. Iras trembled in her long linen cloak, and as Charmion studied the piles of wood stacked in a circle around the hall, her eyes began to well with tears.
“Shut the doors!” my mother commanded. “Lock them as firmly as you can!”
“What about Antyllus?” Alexander asked worriedly. “He was fighting—”
“He’s fled with your father!”
When the doors thundered shut, Iras drew the metal bolt into place. Then, suddenly, there was silence. Only the crackling of the torches filled the chamber. Ptolemy began to cry.
“Be quiet!” my mother snapped.
I approached the bed and took Ptolemy in my arms. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I promised. “Look,” I added gently, “we’re all here.”
“Where’s Father?” he cried.
I stroked his arm. “He is coming.”
But he knew I was lying, and his cries grew into high-pitched wails of terror. “Father,” he wailed. “Father!”
My mother crossed the chamber to the bed and slapped his little face, startling him into silence. Her hand left an imprint on his tender cheek, and Ptolemy’s lip began to tremble. Before he could begin to cry again, Charmion took him from my arms.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I tried to keep him quiet.”
My mother climbed the marble staircase to the second story, and I joined Alexander on the bottom step. He shook his head at me. “You see what happens from being kind?” he said. “You should have slapped him.”
“He’s a child.”
“And our mother is fighting for her crown. How do you think she feels, hearing him crying for Father?”
I wrapped my arms around my knees and looked at the piles of timber. “She won’t really set fire to the mausoleum. She just wants to frighten Octavian. They say his men haven’t been paid in a year. He needs her. He needs all of this.”
But my brother didn’t say anything. He held the pair of dice in his hands, shaking them again and again.
“Stop it,” I said irritably.
“You should go to her.”
I looked up the stairs to the second story, where my mother was sitting on a carved wooden couch. Her silk dress fluttered in the warm breeze, and she was staring out at the sea. “She’ll be angry.”
“She’s never angry at you. You’re her little moon.”