Free Cleopatra by Kristiana Gregory Page A

with an apron of leather strips decorated with pendants. These ornaments fell to his knees and made a jangling noise with every step he took.
    He saluted by placing his right fist over his heart then raising it towards Pompey. I was quite taken by this soldier’s robust looks and his cheerful manner. Introductions went around. I pushed my stool back to stand and say my name, but I was not going to bow to him.
    â€œMarc Antony,” he responded, smiling at me, “and I am enchanted, Your Highness.” He said something else in Greek, but his accent was so rough I didn’t understand him.
    An official standing behind me whispered that Antony, though Roman, was born in my city, Alexandria. He is about twenty-six years old and is the chief cavalry officer who will lead the soldiers to Egypt, to restore Father to the throne. He seemed so merry I could not see in my mind how he might wield a sword against enemies. Was he to be my protector?
    I looked at him directly. In Latin I said, “Is your good cheer from what you drink, Marc Antony, or is it from what you think?”
    He threw his head back in laughter. “Clever girl,” he said, “but you are just a child to speak so.”
    O, my temper rose at this. I gave him a cold, hard stare before remembering I must be on good terms with this commander. If he succeeds in deposing Berenice and restoring Father to his throne, then my life in Alexandria will be safe once again. Safe, that is, if the Romans leave us alone. And safe, as long as Father believes I am his favourite daughter, not a competitor.
    The sharp words I wanted to say to Marc Antony remained in my head. Thus I was silent. Father broke the tension with a cheerful report on the weather. As the men joined in with other meaningless chatter, I kept my eye on Antony. He had a well-grown beard and a strong face, and I noticed that his laugh brought smiles to those around him, even myself.
    After many moments, my heart softened.

To continue…
    A young woman arrived in a sedan chair. She was a little older than myself and very beautiful. Her hair was swept up in the style of a noble lady and she wore a white toga with a thin, crimson sash. Her eyes were kind. The way she smiled at me gladdened my heart.
    An official introduced her to me as Julia, the bride of Pompey. I was surprised such a sweet-looking girl was married to that man, that vulgar brute, but even more surprised when she said her father is Julius Caesar!
    As we visited with each other, slaves brought in goblets of apple nectar so we could refresh ourselves. They also served us bread, sliced thinly and topped with cheese and bits of black olives. A reader stood by the fountain, reciting the latest poem by Catullus who himself lives in a nearby villa.
    Well, I’ll be brief now, for it is quite late and my eyes feel heavy. Julia’s visit was solely to invite me to the theatre tomorrow afternoon! I will be happy to see more of Rome and perhaps make a friendship with her.

13 Junius
Still in Rome
    So much rain. I’ve been ill with a terrible cold, so have not recorded my thoughts for some days. Now as I pen this, the hour is late, the house of Atticus is quiet. His reader left an hour ago. For the moment, my companion is a white cat sitting in the doorway that opens out onto the garden. It is watching a nightingale drink from the fountain. (O, beware, little bird.)
    To continue about my day with Julia…
    The streets of Rome are as crowded and noisy as Alexandria’s. Slaves carried our chairs with a bumpiness that made me grab onto the sides for fear I would tumble out. It would be a messy fall, because the cobblestones are soaked with refuse: kitchen garbage, dung from horses and dogs and, most putrid of all, waste from latrines that has been thrown out windows. Stepping stones imbedded in the road are the only way people can cross the street without fouling their feet.
    Such wretched air! The sides of my sedan had