Queen of Kings - Maria Dahvana Headley [41]
Octavian had slept restlessly, dreaming of taking Caesarion back to Rome and installing him in his own house. His wife, Livia, would protest, of course, but what place did Livia have to protest anything? She’d married him while pregnant with another husband’s child, and who would blame him for adopting a male heir when Livia had not provided one for him? This boy was Caesar’s own blood! Far better than Octavian’s stepson, Tiberius, who carried no heroic line in his ancestry. Just as Octavian had been adopted by Julius Caesar, Octavian would adopt Caesarion. It was fitting.
The symmetry had pleased the emperor, and he’d been on the point of announcing his decision when the absence of Cleopatra’s body from her mausoleum changed things.
Octavian needed a lure for the queen, and the son must serve. He announced that he’d changed his mind, that Caesarion could not be trusted.
A bewildered Agrippa resisted this sudden shift in Octavian’s plans, insisting that if Caesarion had to be executed, it should be done in private. He feared a riot, angry Alexandrians resisting the death of their prince.
Octavian could not bring himself to explain that the execution was a trap for a dead woman.
Where was she? He scanned the crowd again.
Perhaps she’d appear in the final moment. He signaled to his forces to remain on guard. The sun was setting, and he must kill the boy or lose the light. The crowd, whatever their loyalties, desired a death. All this was Cleopatra’s fault, and Octavian resented her for it.
He took a deep breath and nodded to his centurion. He would not do this dirty thing himself. The crowd screamed with bloodlust, recognizing the gesture.
“Traitor!” they cried, and pushed closer, some of them attacking each other in their excitement.
His men raised their shields in a ceremonial gesture, and he searched the crowd one last time. No one. Only an old woman wrapped from head to toe in rough veils struck his eye, and she was at the farthest edge of the throng, pushing her way forward. Not the queen.
Octavian glanced toward the boy, questioning his haste in condemning him. Scarcely Cleopatra’s son at all. Far more the son of Caesar. He looked toward his advisors, wondering what excuse he could use to render this afternoon forgotten, wondering how he would calm the crowd should he not give them what they expected.
Just then, the boy’s eyes blazed open, and he lurched in the grip of the centurion, flinging his arms upward and his body back. He kicked and connected with the older man’s leg, and the centurion lost his hold. Caesarion began to run, launching himself off the platform like a gazelle, and even in such dire circumstances, Octavion could only look upon him in wonder.
Here was a warrior. Everyone had seen his bravery. The boy was a credit to his father’s country. Octavian moved his hand to call the execution off.
“Pardon him!” he managed, but the noise of the crowd was too loud.
They surged forward, fists in the air, throwing punches and bellowing, surrounding the boy.
“Kill him!” they shouted, and Octavian’s centurion, now recovered, leapt off the platform with a roar of fury.
19
People kicked about Cleopatra, pulling and tugging at her robes. The scent of flesh seared her nostrils. She inhaled deeply, feeling the press of limbs against hers, the weight of bodies. Her fingers curled, hidden beneath her robe. Cleopatra could almost see the emperor, almost see his intended victim, whoever it was. She pushed her way forward, craning her neck for a view.
She hungered, troubled by the gaps in her memory. Surely, she had last eaten weeks ago, before Antony’s death. She’d dined with her love, that was it. The night before he died.
But somehow, she was not certain of that. There were flashes in her mind that felt like memory, pale skin, blood trickling.
The last light of the sun shone directly on the shields ahead, reflecting into