He wanted to be away from her as well; she could feel it. He wanted to run, but he had promised he would help her. His brave words were false. Nicolaus trembled before her, and yet he managed to turn his back on her, pushing through the throngs, wending their way through the slender, dusty streets of Rome, the child sleeping in his arms.

She had no pity for him. He was the one who’d insisted they depart the ship at dusk and walk into a sea of people, the sights and sounds of Rome, the animals flanking them, the whores and sailors. She could see only the back of his neck as he led her through the crowd, the slender vertebrae above the scholar’s cloak. It would be easy. The rope between them was pulled taut. He was already tied to her, though to observers, it would look as if she was tied to him, his property, his slave.

It would seem to the crowd that he was a trainer and she was his beast, a lion barely tamed by a leash, she thought, bristling, and then remembered that she was not a lioness but a woman.

“Never do that again,” she managed to say. “Never touch me again. I would have had him.”

“It was quick thinking on my part. Agrippa’s men would have captured us. I saved you.”

She was not something to be saved, the voice of Sekhmet whispered. She was something to be worshipped.

Did she need him, truly?

Yes, Cleopatra reminded herself. He could go out in the day when she could not. He could seek her children where she could not. Her face was too easily recognized in this ugly city.

“I wanted him to see me,” she said, rebelling against her own thoughts. “I would confront him. Agrippa was the leader of the army in Alexandria. It is because of him that Antony is dead. And he was there when they killed my son, standing beside Octavian. He gave the order.”

“Confront? You do not mean confront. You mean kill. You would have fought him there, in the port? There were citizens everywhere.”

“Roman citizens,” Cleopatra said. What if a Roman was hurt? Did it matter so much?

“And your own people, perhaps,” Nicolaus reminded her. “There was another boatload of slaves coming in, and who knows where they were seized? The emperor’s men have been all over Africa.”

The scholar touched her hand, and she pulled away from him, barely suppressing a hiss. Was this what it would be from now on? No one to touch her? No one to love her?

It did not matter. Antony was dead.

She should be entering the city with her ancestral crown atop her head, and instead she’d climbed up from the slave quarters and into the dirt. Rome was a colorless city, somber in comparison with Alexandria’s brilliance. At home, everything was draped in silks, every surface ornamented. Here, decoration was seen as weakness. The last time she’d walked off a ship and into this country, she’d had Caesarion in her arms, newborn and perfect, and Julius Caesar beside her. Caesar, at least, had respected Cleopatra. He believed that women were as capable as men, and when, in the course of his long career, his foes had mocked him as being “womanlike,” he’d retorted that the Amazons had once ruled over Asia, and Semiramis had reigned supreme and ferocious over Babylon for a hundred years. If this was womanlike, let him be a woman. Caring nothing for gossips, disregarding his betrayed wife, and scoffing at the way the senators talked, he’d installed his mistress in his own garden house on the Tiber, and there she’d walked, surrounded by roses that reminded her of home.

They passed those same gardens now, given to the people at Caesar’s death.

“I am a queen,” she told Nicolaus finally. “You are a servant. You will not touch me.”

“Keep quiet. We do not need to be captured just as we arrive,” said Nicolaus without looking at her. He pulled her into a doorway as a patrol of legionaries marched past.

In the shadows, Cleopatra shifted her veil. Her eyes were dilated, she knew. Beneath the veil, she examined her fingers. The nails were long and curving, the claws of a lion. As she watched, they receded.

Antony, she thought. What have I become?

Talking to him was the only thing that kept her human. She thought of their marriage ceremony, their hands entwined, all the lamps lit, peacocks parading, their children seated around them, his shaggy mane of hair, the feeling of his muscles beneath his skin as she held his arm. Cleopatra was not gone when she thought of her husband. She had not lost herself entirely, she kept trying to remind herself. Part of her was still human.

But she feared this was untrue.

Amongst the cats, she’d stayed quiet enough, forgetting her history, forgetting everything. Vengeance and Rome had seemed far away. She slept curled around the lions and tigers, soothed by the sound of their purring. In the cat’s body, she scarcely noticed what she was doing, and the slaves seemed to expect what was coming for them. They hardly resisted.

Only slaves, Cleopatra thought, still troubled by what had happened aboard the ship, but it was no comfort. She hadn’t known about the child as she took the mother, as she took the father, as she took everyone, frenzied, glorying in hunger and satisfaction. She’d nearly killed the child, too. Her mouth was on his throat when she realized what she was doing and forced herself backward, screaming into the darkness for discovery. She’d thought herself in control of her hunger by the time she boarded the ship, but she was wrong.

Half through the voyage, she’d found herself crouched with the cats in the hold, running her fingers over a tiger’s coat, certain she could read the markings on it. The future, she’d thought, believing, if only for a few hours, that her own acts were written here, her own hopes, her own solutions. The tiger’s stripes were hieroglyphs, she’d thought, as she’d sat in the dark, reading in the language of the gods. It was only now, walking through the streets of Rome, that she saw the madness in this.

Her future, whatever it was, was written nowhere but in her own body, and the writing was unclear. All she knew was that she had arrived in the city of her enemies, and that they were all around her.

Nicolaus placed the ship’s child in apprenticeship to a scribe he had known in Damascus, and at last, they arrived at their destination.

“No one will look for us here,” he said as he pried the lock from the door. He hid her in a library, the home of a poet, Virgil, a great favorite of the emperor. Nicolaus had encountered him in Alexandria months before and learned that he planned to be in Campania for some time.

She tried to study Virgil’s library instead of dreaming of fire and bloodshed. The scholar brought incense to the room, and she burned the resin, but it gave her none of the pleasure it once had. It reminded her of Alexandria, the smell of the cedar planks imported from Cyprus. Those same dockyard planks had caught fire and ignited the library filled with the knowledge of every traveler, every scholar, medicines and magic, maps and death songs, in all the languages of man. Now all that true understanding was lost, dispersed as ashes into the air of Egypt and settled into the sand. Cleopatra had inhaled the ashes herself—she remembered walking the city as it burned, the smoke low and black—and they had not taught her anything.

Nicolaus went out into the city to glean the location of her children. This was what a queen should do, she knew. Wait for her servants to get her the information she could not herself obtain. She knew that Rome was traitorous, that assassins could appear out of nowhere. She knew she should be reasonable. She would resist Sekhmet’s voice. She could not take revenge until she knew where her children were. She would not run the risk of hurting them more than she already had.

Cleopatra opened the scrolls, spreading them on the marble floor before her. Studying them as once she had studied her language lessons. Poems and histories, books of myth, romance, and medicines. Words were the things that had made her a true queen of Egypt. They were her power. No longer. The vellum of certain, more precious texts radiated nothing but the lives of dead things. She could scarcely pay attention long enough to absorb the stories in the scrolls.

Even in this windowless room, Cleopatra could feel the moon crossing the sky. She thought of Ra, an ancient with bones of silver, flesh of gold, and hair the pure blue of lapis, traveling the waters of the sky in his day boat, creating the stars and constellations so that when night came, and he traveled into the Underworld, his path would be lit.

Now endless night was what she desired. Night was best for murder, and her enemy, like all men, surely slept when the sun was gone. She could feel Sekhmet surging through the world, fueled by Cleopatra’s rampage aboard the ship.

She bent again over the book before her, searching for distraction. She happened instead upon an unpublished poem about her own marriage. Virgil had obscured it somewhat, and grafted a new and terrible ending onto the story. She was gossip now.

Virgil had disguised Cleopatra as Dido, the foreign queen of Carthage, in love with Aeneas, who left her behind to return to his own people. In this poem, the queen’s suicide was successful. Aeneas watched the smoke of her pyre from the deck of his homebound ship.

It was as though Antony had fled her at Actium and gone back to Rome, leaving her to burn.

Cleopatra threw the pages to the ground, furious. She would not wait here, in this library, in this poet’s house, no matter what Nicolaus said.

An old city filled with temples. A city filled with people. Her children and her enemy awaited.