Daughter of Eagles: The God's Wife #2

By Sarah Holz

"The air is different than it was, imi-ib... I sometimes wonder if we can go back to what was far less than even we imagine…"

 

            Eight years have passed since Octavius Caesar – now Augustus – discovered the fate of Arsinoë and her daughter, Aetia. He has built Rome an empire on the bones of the fallen Ptolemies and his great-uncle, Julius Caesar, now worshipped as a god. But the peace of his world is threatened from within by a conspiracy that echoes the murderous past he is so desperate to forget, and the only one who can save him from it may be the girl he fears the most…

 

            Free-spirited Aetia is perfectly satisfied to leave Rome to Octavius and his contentious inner circle. But when the gods of Egypt choose her to avert a disaster that could destroy everything her beloved mother fought to defend, she and her father's suspicious heir will have to put aside their differences if they are to prevent their enemies from altering the very course of history…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah Holz
• Release date: Nov 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393537038

Sarah Holz

Sarah Holz is a native of Buffalo, New York who now lives and writes in Pittsburgh when she isn't too busy reading. She is the author of The God's Wife and its sequels, Daughter of Eagles and Children of Actium.

Book preview

Chapter One

I slip through the back door of the inn, placing the promised few bits of silver in the hand of the cook for keeping it open for me. I edge my way through the dark hallway by memory. I always make sure to observe my surroundings thoroughly when I arrive in any new place. As my father would say, a good general makes a habit of knowing everything about the field. I climb up the ladder to our room in the loft as silently as I can manage, pausing to listen for Nuray’s breathing. Satisfied that she is still asleep, I tiptoe over to my roll of bedding and start to lay aside my dupatta, its golden threads finding scattered starlight to soak up.

And how did it go? a voice mewls in my head from the blackest corner of the room.

I turn toward the source of the voice, and I see large yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. Oh, fine, I suppose, I whisper. I met the great Augustus Divi filius.

In truth, some of my talk with Octavius was bravado. I know what he is capable of. We are family, but I know what he has done to those who are my family and not his. The brush with the Princeps of Rome reminds me of a hot night in India. My cheek stings with the guilt of an old slap. That said, I was grateful for the opportunity to feel him out. A good general knows his enemy. And my enemy Octavius certainly is.

The eyes move from their corner and fall into the distinctly disapproving face of a spotted, lanky cat too large to be domesticated. The beast sits itself across from where I’m kneeling and flicks its tail back and forth in agitation.

I told you it was a bad idea! he says to me without moving his mouth. "Now the Raaja knows you’re here. From what you’ve told me, he’ll be looking for us!"

I give the leopard cat an annoyed glance as I continue to change into to my sleeping shift. "He won’t find us, Girah. Don’t be such a kaayar. Why is it my fate to be saddled with the most spineless of demons? Now hush, you’ll make me wake Nuray."

I am not a coward! the cat sulks, whipping its tail. "You’re being reckless, ranijiti. As usual."

A good general knows when to gamble. Nonsense. Now come over here and go to sleep.

He skulks over, giving a little toss of his head as he does. "I am a great immortal warrior. I do not need sleep," he huffs, but he settles himself into the curve of my stomach all the same.

I am amazed at how quickly his furry weight begins to make me feel drowsy. I kissed my father’s statue, I murmur to him as I sleepily scratch his neck where his fur forms a smoky pattern resembling a rope.

Well, that is something to get going on. You should have brought some garlands. The gods enjoy flowers.

I fall asleep with a smile on my lips, imagining the neck of the Divus Julius decked with the heavy garlands Girah is thinking of. The long strands of rudraksha seeds sacred to Shiva would be appropriate, no doubt, for the destroyer god that created me.

––––––––

By the time my body pulls me from the depths of sleep, morning sunlight is already streaming into the room and Nuray is sitting up on her bedroll mending a tear in her himation, her small fingers moving quickly over the fabric. I laugh when I think about our Nuray once being a timid parthenos in service to Artemis after all I have seen her do, but she continues to be humble of her own merits. I am a great coward by nature, she’ll say. You and your lady mother taught me to be brave, kore.

Seeing that I’m awake, she who has been my guardian and companion as far back as I have memory gives me a mildly reproving look. My Aetia wouldn’t have been out roaming the dangerous streets of Rome by herself last night, would she?

I sit up and raise my arms to stretch them out. Certainly not. Especially when my dearest Nuray commanded me not to do so.

She clucks over her stitches. I thought as much. You only ever sleep later than the sun when you’ve been up half the night. I at least hope you were careful.

Oh, always. Though I suppose you’ll be annoyed that I left Girah here to watch you rather than taking him with me for protection.

Nuray scoffs. You know I hate to cast doubts on those to whom the gods bend their favor, but I don't care what the holy man said. I don’t trust that villain to watch a pot boil, let alone defend you or me.

A chirpy voice answers her. Hmph! And after I spent all morning finding breakfast for us all.

I turn to watch Girah climb down through the window with one spindly monkey arm full of apricots. I was wondering where you’d gone to. And it’s not polite to talk about Nuray when she cannot hear you to defend herself. When he is in the form of an animal, my rakshasa can only be heard in my head.

I do not need to defend myself from the likes of him, huffs Nuray, cutting her thread with her teeth. She has never liked Girah and disapproved of his coming out of India with us, though I remind her he really had no choice. And secretly, I enjoy their squabbles.

I rise from my bed roll and begin to pull my clothes on over my shift, first sliding into the silk pants from one of my shalwar kameez, because one never knows what the day will bring. That accomplished, I layer a simple chiton over them, and if it weren’t for the exotic flash of my dupattas, I might actually succeed in passing for a good Greek girl.

We munch through the apricots and begin to gather up our belongings. We had been in Rome a handful of days, and truly, that seemed like enough for a lifetime. I decided when we were leaving Carthage that it was just as easy to catch a vessel heading for the Roman port of Ostia as anywhere else. When we disembarked on the shores of Italy, passing the slave crews working to drain the plague-breeding marshes, I thought to ride into the northern country along the borders of Cisalpine Gaul. However, in spite of my habitual dismissiveness of Rome, my curiosity got the better of me, and we decided to spend some time in what was supposedly becoming an Alexandria to outshine our own.

We wandered the noisy markets, took in the public baths, strolled in the languorous gardens, and watched various performers vie for our attention in the crowded streets. And in all of these places were the fingerprints of my cousin Octavius, everywhere his attempts to blot out Rome’s violent past and uncertain future.

In me, however, his efforts had the opposite effect. The more he tried to obscure the past, the more its echoes drew me in. I arrived as an indifferent visitor, but the more he had bludgeoned out the unsettling memories, the more I sought them out. The more I sniffed out the traces of my mother’s tracks along the Via Triumphalis, squinting to see where the fearful gait of a girl in chains broke into the graceful step of a firebird queen. The more I looked for the red scars of my father’s blood in the Forum’s dirt. I felt the snares of history upon my wrists, culminating in my sojourn to the temple of Divus Julius where Octavius and I circled one another at my father’s feet. I laughed at him, and yet even as I slipped away into the night, I knew for my good health and sanity, we should leave his city of mirrors at dawn.

"Where are we going next, kore?" Nuray asks as we pause along the docks. She settles herself on a low stone wall to rest. Girah, who changed into a sleek fawn-colored greyhound when we left the inn, noses the air before sitting down at my feet.

We could go back east, I reply, the scent of sea spray already calling to me. We never did make it to Athens after we hit that storm near Miletus.

So, you wish to abandon your designs on Gaul completely?

It would seem our timing is not right. The borderlands are still uneasy, and you mustn’t think I care not for my dear old Nuray’s safety, I tease as she pretends to shake off my concerns with a shrug. Maybe the next time we are blown into Ostia.

Nuray begins to respond when Girah makes a low, whining bark, his tail wagging anxiously.

What is it? I ask him softly.

There is a man watching us from the other side of the thoroughfare, he says making a series of short, yapping motions with his mouth.

I steal a glance in the direction he is looking and find a tan young man with a shaven head who is indeed watching us.

Easy now, Girah, I say, his appearance relaxing my guard. He’s only a priest, and an Egyptian in the bargain. You had me afraid my prickly cousin had sent the Praetorian Guard after us.

The priest, noticing our attention upon him, picks his way slowly across the bustling docks. Reaching us, he holds his hand to his forehead in a gesture of respect. "Akhamyt-heqet?" he asks with some hesitation.

One who addresses me by both my Egyptian name — Akhamyt — and as the daughter of a pharaoh could only come from Ombos. "Sharm’ ha hetep, sir, I nod, trying to put him at ease. What brings a servant of the old gods so far from home?"

"Praise indeed to the iait, my lady, for only the intervention of Hemsut Fortune-Wielder could have brought me such a stroke of luck. In truth I was sent in search of you, Princess, he replies happily. I was preparing for a long voyage east to find you out and here you are waiting for me before even my ship!"

I raise my eyebrows as Nuray skeptically tilts her head to the side. Coincidence indeed, sir, I say cautiously. Who has sent you on my trail?

He makes a more elaborate motion of respect. "She who is the light and renown of Father Ra, and to whom the holy gods open Their mouths. She who is the Beloved of Lord Set, His God’s Wife. Your lady mother, Akhamyt-heqet, Arsinoë the Fourth of Her Name, Queen of Egypt."

He reaches into his pack and produces a single fibula, which he hands to me. Its scalloped silver with gilt edges and carefully mounted jewels are easy to recognize. It is one brooch of a pair given to my mother by Cicero when she was a captive to my father and my aunt here in Ostia, oddly enough.

Nuray and I exchange surprised glances over the pin, for my mother has never sent a messenger after me on my travels. Yet the fibula speaks for itself.

There is no queen in Egypt, I reply shortly to cover my discomfiture. Only the Roman praefect in Alexandria who serves Octavian Augustus. I don’t know why I’m bothering to correct him. Any time an Egyptian speak of my mother in the present tense outside of our borders, everyone simply treats them as touched in the head. The gods of Egypt protect their own.

He gives me the knowing smile most foreigners find so infuriating in Egyptians. "Of course, my lady. There is no queen in Egypt since Cleopatra Thea Philopator traveled into the Duat," he parrots dutifully.

I flick my hand. Yes, yes. So why has my mother sent a Set-priest in search of me?

"I am not privy to the desires of the hemet-netjer, but she bade me request of Your Highness that you return to Ombos at your earliest convenience."

Although I have no reticence about obeying my mother’s summons, the request itself is so unusual that it fills me with unease. My mother is not ill or in danger? I try to keep my voice steady.

She was well when I departed, my lady, the priest soothes. But I urge you to heed our lady’s call all the same.

I sigh. Very well. You may catch the first ship heading to Alexandria and we shall follow on the next. I am about to dismiss him when I am struck by a thought. I desire that you do not tell my mother where you found me. My mother had released me into the wider world to fly where I may, but I know she remains uncertain of my status among my Roman kin, even if Octavius is the only one aware of me. The last thing I need is some eager young priest babbling to her that he found me on my cousin’s doorstep.

He nods. As you wish, my lady. He bows at the waist. May the holy gods keep you on your journey home. And with that, he leaves to transfer his passage to another vessel.

What do you think of this? Nuray inquires as she watches him go.

When I am at a loss, I go back to my father’s books, the things he wrote. I use his words like divining bones and cast them out to see how I should proceed.

"Your mother is wiser, ranijiti. You should be using her words," observes Girah, rooting about in my thoughts. Many times I will upbraid him for these kinds of intrusions, but at the moment I am feeling indulgent.

But that’s just it, I answer him in my mind, my eyes closed and my head tilted back, running long lines of Latin through my head. Her words are not as useful because she sees so much and I’m too impatient to follow her. I relax my mouth into a wry grin. I need my father’s too-clever-by-half guidance. I consider our position, rolling phrases this way and that until one surfaces above the rest. A good general pays attention to changes in the dust to alert him to the movements of his allies as much as his enemies.

I look down at the fibula in my hand, running my thumb along one of the edges. My mother wouldn’t recall us without purpose, and I am wary of anything she is unwilling to divulge to her priests, I answer Nuray aloud, lifting my face again to the slight breeze that blows against us from the sea. And if I am right, not an army of all the gods put together could keep me from Ombos.

Chapter Two

The captain steers our ship through the shoals of Alexandria’s harbor just as the keepers are igniting the fires of the lighthouse. The city bustles to finish its daytime business before the midwinter sun descends into the sea, supposedly to do battle alongside the god who calls my mother his beloved. The palace already glowing by torchlight on the other side of the harbor, its golden walls shining against the dying light. A ridiculous, gaudy place when it was the home of royalty, it is now the supremely ludicrous abode of whatever nonentity Octavius sends from Rome to mind us all for him. Only one praefect let all of that glitter go to his head, but he didn’t live very long to rue his mistake. My cousin takes his personal control of Egypt quite seriously and our ghosts still rattle their chains in the vast, lonely halls of my ancestors.

Should I find a boatman to take us to Canopus? Nuray asks wearily at the thought of another night out of a real bed.

I am inclined to agree. No, we’ll stay in the city tonight. The Nile can wait.

The usual accommodations?

Oh, I think so. You know the deviousness of Alexandrians preying upon unsuspecting travelers. Can you bear the walk?

She nods, adjusting the bag on her shoulder as we press through the crowds leaving the docks into the Soma. We pass the scarred shell of the Great Library, the uneven plasterwork and patchy roof attesting to the city’s desperate attempts to rebuild its magnificent temple of learning without the coin or books to accomplish the task. Alexandria’s scholars have traveled nearly as widely as I to beg new manuscripts off of one kingdom or another, but we have gained a reputation for conflagration and their pleas have fallen on deaf ears.

We cut through the Park of Pan, ducking the disapproving notice of the watchmen beginning their rounds, and wind our way through the cluttered back alleys until we reach the house with the sign of a stringed kithara over its door. My knock is answered by a servant girl who leads us in to treat with a paunchy doorman I don’t recognize, curse my luck.

We’re here to see the lady of the house, I explain to him.

She’s unavailable, he replies, barely bothering to give me his notice. No dogs allowed, he adds, glancing up from his dice at Girah, who flattens his ears.

I doubt it, I answer, ignoring his comment about my rakshasa. She gave up handling clients personally years ago. Unless you’re bringing in a very different type of business these days.

He glowers at me. You’d better learn to guard that tongue if you want a job here, girl.

"Oh, are you thinking of giving up the trade and she’ll need a replacement?"

See here! he shouts, rising from his chair as quickly as his bulky frame will allow. Just who in the name of Hades do you think you are?

That is none of your concern, Ursos, a sweet, wafting voice answers from the nearest wing as I turn my head to smile at its surprisingly elderly owner. I will handle this saucy tart, she giggles as she embraces me. "Welcome home, kharsheret. It is always good to see you."

And you, Madam Harp, I gasp into the heady cloud of her gardenia perfume as I am pressed into her thick, ash-blonde curls. I pray you keep yourself well?

She waggles her head as she steers us back toward her private quarters. Oh, yes. Business is good and my health holds, what more can I ask?

I see you’ve hired a new man out front, I remark.

She sighs and waves a hand, sending her bracelets jangling. Oh, well, you know how hard it is to keep people about these days. I had to let old Dhouti retire and now that Rome has opened up one end of the Great Sea to the other, you’re not the only one who cannot bear to be in one place, she explains, patting my arm.

I thought Dhouti was going to die on that chair, I observe as Nuray and I each take an offered seat on one of her couches.

I was going to let him, Princess, she affects dolor as she pours out wine for us. But that nincompoop decided to go blind on me, so I had to settle him out in the country. She shakes her head wonderingly. A blind doorman. Honestly, the gods jest with me... I assume you are looking for a place to stay tonight?

If it wouldn’t be inconvenient for you.

Of course not! I am always delighted to be of service to you. What brings my young lady back to Egypt?

Now it is my turn to be airy. Oh, this and that. We’ll leave for Ombos in the morning.

Ah, that is good, she agrees. I have half a mind to go with you to visit with Her Majesty. I always look forward to her letters — we all do. I often read them out to my girls.

I gaze into the aging face of the woman they called the Sweet Harp in her younger years as she ponders thoughts of my mother’s letters fondly. It is a look I know well — it is the expression all of the Five wear when they remember the old days, at least those of their cohort that I have known. Harp’s nostalgia is particularly potent because the days of the Alexandrian War were those of her youth when she was pretty and adored by all. Some of that loveliness remains, marred only by the usual cares of age and the welted letter pi branded on her right cheek, the retribution of my aunt on the hetaerae who chose my mother over her.

She catches me looking at its scarred edges. You know it’s always appeared worse than it is, she says serenely, brushing her fingertips across it. I can still hear Sister Palm... She pauses and changes her tone into Madam Palm’s reedy alto. "Bah! Is this the best that bitch can do? As if all of Egypt didn’t know our business already! Besides, she’s the one the people are branding as a pornai! She winks at me playfully. Cleopatra never forgave me for offering up that double of our Meretkaset to Caesar’s perusal."

I chuckle politely. One can’t fault her famed prescience in that. Rome does not intrude too deeply in your business?

No, no, the Harp shakes her head. "We have heard Augustus is not as fond of vice as his uncle, but he leaves us be. The enemy of my enemy and so forth. Not that we are much as we were. Her eyes go soft again. Mother Mirror and Palm so long dead, and Sail gone home to retirement in Thessaly."

Has the Leopard hung up his silks as well? asks Nuray.

Not as such, but he so rarely leaves Thebes these days. One of his old charges handles most of his daily concerns. She gestures expansively. Mostly it’s only little old me carrying the standard forward, training everyone’s replacements. It’ll never quite be as it was.

I’ve found that change is the only constant in this tumultuous world, I remark wryly.

––––––––

I stand near the prow of our barge the following day, watching the crocodiles slide into the murky, churning waters of the river and the ibises unhurriedly pick their way along the shore, their long beaks removing insects from the mud, as the skylarks trill from the scrubby trees that crop up in the distance. The boat that pilots us down the Nile is not a large one because we are not going to Memphis or Thebes, but it is nearly full all the same. Ombos is never short of travelers these days, yet the stream of pilgrims remains modest in its flow, never bursting in a torrent like the river they come to the desert city on. Egypt is drawn to the feet of its beloved hemet-netjer, but the ta-meriu are a patient people. Their lives are spent in contemplation of the next, the one waiting beyond the western horizon. They are born to wait, even if I am not.

Although never by specific intention, I have not been to the Queen’s City for some time now. I have affection for this insignificant village tucked in the crook of the Nile, and above all my mother, but it is still not quite my home. I am there for a handful of weeks or months and then I begin to feel it again, the perpetual restlessness in my feet. I go through the motions of the days in Ombos, yet my mind drifts away, across the desert, across the sea. My dreams begin to fill with snow or jungles, and the sandy streets of Set’s domain grow flat before me. I will sometimes fight it briefly, but at last I will resolve to leave once more, only to return to my room and find my bags already neatly packed upon my bed. For my mother can sense when I am ready to go even before I do. Nuray will sigh and click her tongue, but she never consents to stay behind.

We disembark and make our way through the narrow, ancient streets amid the press of the market and the hails of recognition the inhabitants send my way. There is bustle and noise, but it has a self-consciousness about itself that Ombos has never fully shed. Like a plain girl marrying a handsome man, the city cannot believe its good fortune. Girah, who has shifted his appearance again, scampers down from my shoulders and sits up on the ground, sniffing the air.

I’m going hunting, he announces, using a paw to clean his face fitfully.

Don’t wander too far, I answer.

He darts off and we enter the temple complex to merge with the small, enthusiastic crowd of worshippers milling about in the public courtyard. I crane my neck to find any of the priests, when I spy a stooping figure sweeping the ground at the end of a short portico to our left.

Master Renni! I call out to the high priest as we approach.

Little one, Nuray! It is wonderful to see you! he says as his mouth splits open into a wide, toothless grin and he gathers us both up into his arms. Her Majesty told us to be watching for you, but I confess I did not expect you so soon.

Our ships were swift, answers Nuray, equally pleased to see our old friend again. Has all been well in our absence?

Oh, yes. We are all well and busy, as you can see. My rheumatism flares up now and again, but only as the seasons turn. However, you will want to see our lady, not listen to an old man prattle about his ailments. He pauses to offer us each an arm as we retrace our steps down the portico and through the outer courtyards. Of course, you know she is receiving at this hour, but she should not be long if you will wait.

I hardly know what other engagements could be more pressing, I reply sarcastically as we enter the interior complex.

He gives my arm an indulgent squeeze. "Now, now, nedjet! We know we are all very dull compared to your exotic travels, but you should mind your elders all the same."

I’m not a child anymore, Master.

Perhaps not, he answers, but you will always be our wee Aetia to me.

Lady Arsinoë summoned us home, Nuray cuts in. Are you quite sure nothing is wrong?

Renni shrugs. "Not to my knowledge. As I said, things have been peaceful. Rome is far away, and we have very little of their presence here. If there is something on the hemet-netjer’s mind, she has not shared it with me."

Well, that isn’t unusual, I remark. My mother is secretive when it suits her.

Grant her that, my child, the priest says gently. She must give so much of herself to others, let her have her small privacies.

Renni is right, of course. My mother has always been generous of herself. She sees that as her duty; indeed, it is what she was raised to do. I was by contrast lucky to be raised as a princess outside of a palace, allowed to selfishly pursue my own desires. I once asked her if she feared she’d raised a brat instead of a dutiful daughter and she laughed. She told me she had not raised me as one was supposed to raise princesses. I had a prince’s heart and therefore some allowances had to be made. I was born to serve the gods and the people, nedjet, she said. You were born to conquer the world. That is why I have given you liberties that the world denies to women. So that you may embrace your destiny.

We find her sitting on a small bench in the innermost courtyard under the shade of a grove of cypresses transplanted from the north. As usual, she has her indigo himation pulled up over her head, which is inclined toward the man sitting on the spread of cushions at her feet speaking to her in a low, animated voice. A cluster of people stand a little way beyond them, whispering amongst themselves, stopping to listen to my mother’s replies when she speaks. Some come to her with prayers, others, looking for advice, but many come to her simply because she is an excellent listener. The pharaohs were distant rulers, the Ptolemies followed suit, and now the Romans are even further away. So, the people flock to this queen who opens her doors and her heart to Egypt, she who has always had an ear for them. There is no liquor as intoxicating as the gift of interest given from one person to another, and my mother is abundant with this capacity. And no one has received a greater share of it from her than me.

I watch the man on the cushions half-rise to kiss my mother’s hands and he bows as he retreats backwards from her presence. A young priest steps forward to dismiss the crowds for the day and the people as a group politely bow and disperse. My mother gives the impression that all will be heard in such a way that there is no grumbling among those who must wait again to speak with her. When they are gone, she pulls back the himation, letting it fold onto her shoulders, revealing the dark hair loosely gathered back from her neck, several long curls falling free. She tilts her head up, her eye closed against the light of the sinking sun.

My lady, look who is here! Renni calls out, breaking into her thoughts.

Arsinoë Philoaígyptos opens her luminous eye and seeing our arrival unleashes her dazzling smile on us. My mother’s eye has a habit of drifting far away from where she is, but her smiles are ever-present and filled with an intimacy that makes one believe she has never bestowed a brighter one upon anyone else. Well, save for one. That one has its own ways.

"Sharm’ ha hetep, imi-ib," she says embracing me and holding the sides of my face as she kisses each cheek, the desert sun stealing across the golden threads of the wadjet covering her missing left eye. Dearest Nuray, she continues, taking her friend’s hand in hers. Travel still suits you, as you look younger every time I see you!

You flatter me, my lady, scoffs Nuray. You simply haven’t leaned close enough to see my new wrinkles yet.

My mother laughs. We shall compare our age marks once you are settled, but I know I shall have the victorious tally, sweet.

Age marks, indeed! clucks Renni. Such foolishness! I will go see that dinner is being set and leave you ladies to your facetious mumblings about old age. He flounces off still chuckling to himself.

I’ll go help him, says Nuray with a wink, leaning over to kiss my mother’s hand before chasing after the old priest.

Now that we are alone, I turn to my mother, frowning. Are you all right? What has happened?

She shakes her head. Do not worry, I am well. Nothing has happened. Not yet.

What do you mean? Don’t send me cryptic messages then riddle with me once I’ve arrived! I retort, concern raising my voice more than I intended.

She reaches up to brush a tendril of hair away from my forehead. I know, my love. We have much to discuss, but I will need some time so let us wait until after dinner. It is not so urgent that we must starve. She holds my gaze fondly. Nuray grows younger every time I see her, and you grow lovelier.

I toss my head. You’re my mother, you must say that.

Not necessarily, she remarks drily. But I say it because it is true. Besides, she pauses and gestures to the patch over her eye, I meant the beauty of your mind as well as any grace of form. It is easy to be born beautiful in body, it takes no special skill. But to cultivate your mind so that it shines out through the vessel of your body, that is rare. That is what I admire in you, my daughter.

I give her a sarcastic grin. Not so difficult when one is born a Ptolemy girl.

Perhaps not, but you carry it well. She cups a hand under my chin. And it is not the Ptolemies I see when you look at me like that.

Everyone says I was born without fear, and those I’ve rubbed the wrong way claim I was also born without shame, but my mother is one of the few who can make me blush as I do now. I almost tell her about my encounter with Octavius in the temple, but I am still afraid of worrying her needlessly.

She waits a moment or two, then glides past my silence without ire because she is eternally patient with me. She drops her hand and looks about, twisting herself around at the waist to make sure she has not missed something on her blind side. I do not see Girah. Have you lost him?

Hardly. He got off the boat and wanted to hunt. He’s dressed as a mongoose presently.

Ah, that is rather modest for him, is it not?

I think he does it out of some odd respect for you and Set. Perhaps he’s hoping to prove to the Prince of Storms that he can be obedient at the right times.

She looks at me, surprised. Is he hoping for a place in my Lord’s entourage?

"I’m not sure, his mind works in odd ways. But rakshasas are always interested in advancement. They’re very much like courtiers in that respect."

Hm, Set will find that amusing, but who can say? He is unpredictable — he might be tempted by such an offer.

––––––––

After dinner, my mother and I retire to her rooms in the western wing of the temple. Her suite is small by her request, but I have always loved it, with its comfortable furniture and shelves piled high with books. As I settle myself on one of the couches, I peek through the gauzy curtain that separates this receiving room from her bedroom and grin at the large tiger skin draped across the bed.

It is warm on these colder nights, she remarks as she reaches up on a shelf for two cups and a cask of wine for us. Renni suggested using him as a rug, but I rather enjoy sleeping under it better.

I laugh. "The villagers who helped me catch it wanted me to wear the skin over my head like Heracles. But I told them I had to send it to my mother. a powerful apsara, who in her benevolence, would grant them the rest of the beast. I believe they are still setting out offerings to you."

I watch her as she carefully places the spout of the wine cask against the rim of the first cup to fill it and my heart in its turn fills with love for her. Her posture is as relaxed as always, but I know the secret strain this seemingly simple task requires of her. My mother has perfected the art of moving through the world unencumbered by her visual disability — so much so that many of the people in town swear that the wadjet she wears over her left eye has the gift of sight — but pouring from a vessel is one of her few small tells. That to defeat her inability to sense the depth and angle of both cup and bottle even by holding them against one another has cost her countless grueling hours of practice.

Now, what is so important that you send a messenger all over the Great Sea to bring me home? I ask as she places the full cup in my hands.

Before she can answer, a squeak comes from the curtain over her doorway. I push it aside and Girah pads his way into the room, carrying a pretty river stone in his mouth. He sits back on his small haunches, dropping the stone into his tiny hands and holding it out to my mother.

Thank you, Girahji, she says as she bends down to take it from him. That is very thoughtful.

I give him a look. "In the stories, rakshasas usually bring gold and jewels to people."

Girah bares his teeth before transforming into a perfect copy of an Egyptian farmer’s wife. "I had to find something you wouldn’t accuse me of stealing, he replies huffily in his peasant woman’s voice. Besides, I know the maatarani loves simple things."

He is quite right, you know, my mother replies, placing the stone on a shelf and hunting about for another cup.

No, no, I say, waving her off. If this one wants wine, he can go find it somewhere else while we talk.

That’s not fair! my demon whines.

I stand firm. If what my mother wishes to speak to me about is not for Nuray’s ears yet, it is certainly not for yours. Go on and bother the birds for a while.

He changes into a skinny mongrel dog and trots out of the room with his nose in the air.

I turn back to my mother, who comes over and sits at my side. To my surprise, her face grows sad as she looks down at the cup in her hands. "The gods have come to me in the Dream World, nedjet. They desire you to go to Rome."

I am at a loss to think of anything she could have said that would have caught me more off guard. Rome? I splutter. Why?

She meets my eyes. Octavian is in danger and they want you to save him, she says, the specter of her past causing her to lapse into the name my cousin hasn’t claimed since he was the boy plucked from obscurity by my father.

I scowl. You can’t be serious.

I am, my love, and so are the holy gods.

I leap angrily to my feet. The force of the animosity inside my chest surprises even me, but I think back to my recent days in Octavius’ noose-tight city and his own attitude toward me, half dismissive, half menacing. In some ways Girah may not have been completely wrong, my cold cousin has seen my face and that might be enough to set his dogs upon me. Or worse, to send them here.

Then they are the monsters the others say they are! Is this one of Set’s schemes? How dare he ask this of us — of me? I rage at my mother in the absence of the mendacious desert god. He caused all of this! This destruction Rome has heaped on us! I cry out, my voice twisting against my will. He caused me!

My mother gazes at me from the couch. "You know it is not that simple, imi-ib. And this is not my Lord’s plan. It comes from the Lady of Order, whose ways are those of balance, not fairness."

My brief tantrum has worn me out enough to pull me back to her side, though I remain incredulous. "But why should we save him, mewet? The Egyptian word, the one I use when mother" feels inadequate, slips from my tongue like the old habit it is.

Because he is your blood, Aetia. Perhaps it is time for the Ptolemies to learn to treasure the bonds of family rather than burn them.

I am still feeling sulky. I don’t see what high and mighty Octavius has done to deserve any help from me. Or you. You don’t owe him anything.

On the contrary, I owe him my life, she counters. He was within his rights to kill me when he came here, but he did not. Her lips press together in the private smile that she does not share with the rest of us. The Julii have always dealt fairly with me. Now we are in a position to return the favor.

What about Caesarion? I snap at her, my anger flaring up again. Is his blood not worth defending? Perhaps she can be callous about my unlucky brother-cousin’s death because of what his mother did to her own adored brother, but if she insists on using family as an argument, I cannot ignore Octavius’ guilt on that score.

My mother’s face crumples. I know, my love, she answers slowly. But if my life has taught me anything, it is that I cannot save everyone. I have failed to save most of those who hold a place in my heart. Yet, I have also learned that we are our choices. My sister was so consumed with saving my nephew’s throne, she did not understand how much his very life was in danger until it was too late.

She pauses and with sudden vehemence, she reaches over and clasps my shoulders. The night I learned that she was dead, I could have sailed us to Alexandria, held you up to Egypt and Rome and proclaimed you queen over the lands of your aunt and your father. I would have been worshiped as a risen goddess and you — you would have been a mythic queen, shining like the zenith sun, crushing the claims of both Octavian and Caesarion beneath your feet because your blood is royal, and your face shows you to be Caesar’s daughter a hundred times beyond your brother-cousin’s proofs.

She rises abruptly, with her slender back to me as she fitfully rubs her left wrist. "But your life is more important to me than any throne in heaven or earth, imi-ib, she murmurs. I gave up my eye and my dearest friend to protect you for your own sake, not so you might have a fleeting kingdom. She looks back at me, her eye swimming with tears. There was a time when I longed to die to guarantee your life, but the gods challenged me to live for you rather than to die for a cause. They reminded me that you were my cause. I owed it to you to survive if I could."

I feel my own eyes begin to sting. I know what it is for my mother to recall those dark days. Perhaps it is because of them that we both cling to the Princeps of Rome’s old names that he has shed like snakeskins. We bear the bones of the past that he is so desperate to bury. And we still remember.

"Mewet, I mumble miserably. I’m sorry, I—"

She walks over and takes my hands in hers as she settles next to me, her soft smile soothing the pounding in my heart. Let me tell you of my dream, she says.

Chapter Three

And so, my mother adjusts the lay of her chiton and begins to speak:

––––––––

I am sitting in the courtyard, under my trees, when the Daughters of Nut appear in front of me, their long black hair fluttering in the breeze like the tails of desert horses. Nephthys wears an Egyptian shift, but Isis’ braided locks snake out from under a violet palla above a matching stola.

The quick-witted goddess catches my eye and twirls back to front for my benefit, swishing the heavy folds of silk. What do you think, Ptolemy-daughter? Does it suit me?

Nephthys shakes her head with silent laughter at her sister’s antics. The Lady of the Night-Bark steps forward and bends down to kiss my cheek wordlessly.

I think the world must be turned upside down if Egyptians are adopting the ways of others, Cleverest of Goddesses, I reply.

Isis conjures a hand mirror from the air and studies herself. The Romans have quite taken me into their hearts, she says, adjusting the hang of an earring. They build me altars next to the silly gods they stole from the Greeks.

Nephthys smiles and gives a wave of her hand, causing golden manacles to fasten themselves to Isis’ delicate wrists as matching chains twine around her slender body.

Fair enough, my sister, says Isis with a knowing laugh, as she winks at me. I might owe some of my cult in Latium to the little Greekish princess who became Sopdet incarnate for the titillation of Rome. She crosses her bound wrists over her chest and the restraints vanish.

To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, High-Soaring Ladies? I ask them. It has been quite some time since we have walked in the Dream World together.

Nephthys traces the arc of a sun traveling across the horizon with a dainty motion of her finger. Too long, she speaks with her eyes.

I touch my fingertips to my forehead. My lady is kind.

Perhaps, but that is hardly our fault! teases Isis. "All the gods of the Black Land clamor to walk through the night in the company of our slippery brother’s hemet-netjer."

Now my ladies flatter me.

Isis’ grin grows a sharpened edge. Flattery is a wise course when one comes seeking a favor.

I incline my head. How may I serve the gods?

Nephthys folds her hands together and unfurls them to reveal an ostrich feather that sprouts from the air between them like a lily. We come from Ma’at, the Queen of Balance, she explains without moving her lips.

Her arm of war grows too heavy, she longs for peace, says Isis.

I have proven no victor in war or in peace, my ladies, I answer. "I do not know if I have the ka to aid the Just Goddess."

You do not, Ptolemy-daughter, but the Daughter of Set does. Isis sees my frown and makes an impatient gesture. You cannot protect her forever.

I am unconvinced by her words. I have allowed Aetia to travel where her feet lead her because in this world most girls are doomed to be sold to the highest bidder, then left to die messily and young. I have protected her, but I have not sheltered her as the tone of Isis Most Excellent implies.

She has chosen the path of a warrior, not a princess, returns the goddess. That is why She Who is Truth has come to her. You cannot change the choices of the girl’s blood—the blood of war gods—because you wish to spare her from the past.

I sigh. Very well. What does Ma’at Who Is All require of my daughter?

I expect Isis to look pleased that I have acquiesced to her, yet instead, she closes her eyes and pain flashes across her features. I turn to Nephthys, whose fathomless gaze floods with sadness.

Ptolemy-daughter, begins Isis, her voice drained of its levity. The Waking World has changed. Such change is inevitable, naturally. It has come and will come again. You know it pains Us that the Two Lands are no longer free, but you and We have saved it from annihilation.

That would be me, the daughter of other foreign conquerors, I remark.

"The Ptolemies were both boon and curse to our people, little one. Their ambitions were too destructive, their rule too proud, but the iait defend those who keep Egypt sovereign in its lands. We wept only when the pharaohs of the House of Ptolemy sought to sell our lands to the northern wolves. When we could not stop them from their course, we raised up a hemet-netjer to see that the Latins would not burn us to the ground. And there it stands, Egypt submits to Latium so that our dead do not choke the Nile. Our people adapt and survive because the queen beloved of them and the gods guide them from the shadows."

"Again, the iait speak kindly to me, she who has never understood how she is worthy of their especial regard. But they do not speak of things I do not already know."

Isis takes a long breath. Our people are now safe under the hand of the Latins, but Latium itself is in danger. The peace it is building needs the Augustus, and he has so many enemies lying in wait for him. There is a festering malice at the heart of his new empire that will devour Latium as it nearly did before. This time, there will be no going back.

I shudder at the memory of those years of destruction. The Winged Sisters know I do not delight in war nor in the misfortunes of others, though I ask a question I have asked before in my life — will not the fall of Rome free Egypt? Is this not something we should assist, not forestall?

Nephthys shakes her head. She conjures an intricate web in the air, its threads glittering in the sunlight. She motions for me to look closer at its form and I see that what I had first thought were random designs are kingdoms. Egypt, Mauretania, Macedonia, Pontus, Syria, Judea, and many others. They all have threads that tied them back to a single point in the web, Rome. The goddess of night makes a snapping motion and produces a small black flame that burns on the tips of her first two fingers. She places the flame on Rome and it vanishes in a rush of fire. As it does, the flames spread along the threads that connected the other kingdoms to the city. They too disappear.

Latium has consolidated too much, explains Isis. If it falls, it will plunge all into chaos. This may happen one day, but not now if we can change our fate.

I bend my head and say nothing for a time. The goddesses are silent as well, as if waiting for me to speak. Finally, I say, The gods know I will do anything for Egypt, but they are cruel for asking me to send the only thing I love more than Egypt into this inferno for the sake of the man who destroyed what was left of our family.

Is the younger Ptolemy-daughter growing soft in her gathering years? says Isis, her eyes taking on the glinting cruelty of a leopard’s. Is that pity for your sister’s end I hear woven in with your fears for your child?

The gods have decreed a life too long for me to continue to feed hatred to my sister’s ghost, I answer wearily. I did not rejoice in her death before, as my lady well knows. I cannot do so now.

The elder Ptolemy-daughter made her own choices, Isis counters. Your sister ended her own life, the boy Augustus did not force the poison down her throat.

He would have strangled her in Rome, I argue. Suicide to avoid murder is not much of a choice. I risk her anger by not guarding my tongue better, but I do not care. I have learned to govern some of my impudence in my daily life, but the gods themselves have taught me to be bold in their presence.

Her arched nostrils flare. "Careful, Ptolemy-daughter. That kind of reasoning pulls blame to your door, as the one who tore away the shield of your sister’s heka from her." She motions to my left eye, which in the Dream World, remember my love, is whole and surrounded by its protective blue wadjet markings. Your actions drove hers as surely as the Latin boy’s did.

My lady is just, of course. I have sins against my blood that I will have weighed before your husband one day. But that does not mean I am not allowed to have reservations about saving Octavian, particularly if it places my daughter in harm’s way. He has a darkness in him. I know what he did to my nephews.

Arsinoë.

I turn in surprise toward the goddess who said my name in her floating, ephemeral voice. Nephthys comes to me and sits on the bench at my side, taking my hands in hers.

We know what this is to ask, but all of you are bound into a web as complicated as that one, she murmurs without moving her lips, indicating where the magical map had been. She reaches up and places the flat of her palm over the ring I wear concealed beneath the cloth of my chiton. Many are the faults of the Augustus, but he is your child’s kin. He is the heir of the one who saw you as we do. The son of the Julians knew the boy would complete his work, the work you promised to aid once upon a time.

I smile sadly at her. I was very young then, and even at the time I feared the result. I still do.

I know, but in the end the choice belongs to your daughter, not to you. She is the child of kings and gods, she was born to do the impossible.

I know this too, I reply, looking deeply into the Lady of the Night Veil’s gaze. "But she is my imi-ib, my heart’s desire. In part I let her range about the world so that she is far away from Rome, that city of wolves."

She looks thoughtful. There are wolves in Egypt as well, little one. Some say that is what the sha is. Perhaps my lord has been clever enough to see to it that our eagle has a wolf’s tail, too. And Ma’at the Far-Seeing will not let her make this journey alone.

I cannot disagree with her, so I turn inward to listen to the thread of divinity stitched into my veins as I do when I am awake. I listen for my Lord’s voice swimming through my sinews and winding through my mind. I feel for the weight in my bones and the pull of the very breath in my lungs.

You know my subtle lady speaks the truth, nedjet, Set says in his thunder-tinged voice. They would not be here if there was another way.

I cannot lose her, my Lord.

Trust her, Beloved. The gods of the Black Land call her satset because she was born of my schemes and to her with whom I am One. This is so and yet also she is the daughter of the mortal who bested my battle strategies and won the trust of my hemet-netjer. She has these inheritances and you have taught her well. That is all we can put our hope in, she must do the rest.

I nod and resurface into the conscious company of Nephthys and Isis. I will speak to Aetia of this. I will ask her for her help, but I will not compel her to accept against her inclination.

The goddesses nod in unison. This is the desire of Ma’at, says Isis.

And then I wake up.

––––––––

I sit twisting the corner of my dupatta, lost in my own ruminations as she finishes. I remember how as a child I would beg my mother to tell me of her special dreams, as I thought of them, more times than I can count. I learned from Nuray, who had learned from our adored Mudjet, how to discern the signs of when she had experienced one of these extraordinary nighttime sojourns. How she would speak only when spoken to. How she would go about tasks seemingly without thought, her mind turning something over in another part of her head. Her feet moving in a secret dance known only to her and the gods. Restless to understand, I used to demand admittance into this part of my mother, and sometimes, she would share pieces of these dreams with me.

But in their retelling, I learned they shared that elusive quality of all dreams in that they became disjointed and banal once she began to recount them. Their intensity dissipated in the pale light of morning in spite of my mother’s flair for storytelling. Just as here, where the glory of the powerful Winged Sisters is reduced to an argument over family obligations between my mother and two harping aunts.

You see, I did not accept this task for you upon my first hearing, my mother remarks, hidden laughter playing around the creases of her storm-colored eye. I am not always as accommodating as you believe me to be. She brushes the back of her hand against my cheek. The path the gods have chosen for me is a labyrinth and you must not think I relish drawing you into the maze.

Her words make me hesitate. I can conceal myself from any wild animal in the midst of the hunt, but I have never been gifted at hiding things from my mother. I already carry the uneasy burden of some of what happened to me in India away from her. I am not ashamed, only, I have felt in my breast that the time was not ripe. Just as I know there are things she holds in her ka that are for her reflection alone. Yet, this I must tell her.

We were in Rome when your priest found us, I say at last, sitting up to face her.

My mother raises the sweeping eyebrow that is partially bound by the strap of her eyepatch in muted surprise. Indeed? I was not told this.

I told your priest not to. I didn’t want to cause you worry. I grin in an attempt to shake my uncertainty. "How was I to possibly guess that I was precisely where you wished me to be? Serves you justly for being so secretive, my lady Meretkaset!"

You are right, and I am properly chastised, she replies amiably. What drew my silver-footed girl to that city? The northern country is supposed to be beautiful and I suspect more to your liking.

I lower my gaze, still somewhat abashed. "I wanted to see him."

Ah, she nods. That is a worthy cause. Did you find what you were looking for?

I don’t know. Partly because I’m not sure what I was expecting to find. It feels silly now.

None of the travels of my winged child are without purpose, my mother says firmly. Perhaps your feet had anticipated the will of the gods and it was only the fretful love of your overly-cautious mother that drew you away from your path.

Maybe. I also met Octavius while I was there, I admit.

And if that is not the work of Fate, then there are no miracles to be had in this world. Did he know who you were?

I nod. I didn’t even have to tell him.

He is a quick study, she remarks. One could not have risen so far if he was not. I deduce your impression of him was not altogether favorable since you take up his defense reluctantly.

"Not as such, it’s just — he is strange, mewet. Everyone speaks of his icy control, and yet he is so angry. He has this fire of rage within himself, mostly aimed at himself. He has led an exemplary life by the standards of his people and he is so unhappy. So unsatisfied."

She thinks on this. "But it is fitting. You have seen enough to know that the vices of our ancestors often run through our veins as well. That is why the Greek plays warn us of this and call us to our own self-reflection. You know that self-destructive pride is the sin of your Ptolemy ancestors. So is restless ambition the mark of the Julii. No matter what they achieve, no matter the gifts of heaven that rain down upon them, their blood