The Triumphant (The Valiant #3)(69)
“Alexandria is full of such marvels,” Cleopatra informed us with a smile that spoke of pure joy at her homecoming. “Once we are settled in my house, I’ll take you over to the mainland and show you girls such sights,” she said, “that you will think yourselves in the land of the gods.”
Even from far out in the harbor, I could see the distant golden gleam of desert sands. Shimmering azure waves kissed the shore where clusters of date palms waved their green-spiked fans in the breeze from off the sea, and the buildings and temples and gardens sparkled like a jeweled mosaic. I wanted to see it all. But first, before setting foot in the city of gods, we were to experience the home of a goddess. For that is what Cleopatra truly was, here in her own realm. She almost shone like gold herself in the sunlight that burned my skin but only seemed to caress hers.
Darius was only allowed to pilot his ship a certain distance from the island of Antirhodos, where the queen kept her primary residence. And so we weighed anchor some ways out and waited to be ferried over from our galley, along with what scant few possessions we’d managed to bring along. A fleet of reed skiffs transported us to the crescent-shaped island with its gleaming palace rising up from the middle of the harbor like a mirage.
The skiffs were piloted by muscular men with heads completely shaved except for a braided sidelock over one ear, wearing curved swords on their hips, belted on over the briefest of loincloths. More than one of the girls went wide-eyed at the sight of them, but I thought Gratia’s eyes might actually fall out of her head when they appeared. Fickle thing, I thought to myself, grinning, and wondered if she’d grown weary of leering at Acheron’s muscles and scars. To be fair, the boatmen were uniformly handsome—almost as if they’d been handpicked to match, like a set of expensive glassware—each one sun-browned and oiled, dark-eyed and smiling enigmatically at us, a strange bedraggled gaggle of the queen’s guests. We waited until every last one of us had stepped from the skiffs onto the pristine docks, unsure of what to do next or where to go. Then the queen of Aegypt spun on the heel of her golden sandal and threw her arms wide.
“Ladies of the Ludus Achillea, worthy lords, my friends and generous saviors,” Cleopatra said with a wide smile as an army of house slaves suddenly appeared, hurrying toward us with Sennefer at their head. “Welcome to my house.”
That’s what she called it. “House.” I was the daughter of a king. I had walked the halls of Julius Caesar’s estate and the marble corridors of residences belonging to some of Rome’s richest families. And yet, I suddenly began to seriously question my understanding of the word “house.” The docks were on the eastern end of the island, and a grand causeway of sixty towering red granite columns led from them to the palace itself. We ascended the shallow steps through the cool shadows of a breezeway and out into a sprawling courtyard resplendent with palm trees and fish ponds and fountains. It felt like a dream.
“You could fit my entire village in this courtyard,” Ajani murmured, blinking at the opulence. “With room for the cattle. All of them.”
Slaves with trays of cool sweet wine and a vast array of sugared confections circulated among us, and I remembered, with a grin, just how much a ludus full of hungry gladiatrices could devour in a very short time. I glanced around, looking for Sorcha, and saw her sitting beneath a striped silk awning with Charon at her side. I headed toward her but was almost run down by a charging toddler in a bright white tunic edged with gold, squealing, “Mama! Mama!” in Greek.
“Ptolemy!” Cleopatra exclaimed with delight, crouching down and opening her arms for the little boy to run into. She embraced him tightly, and for a moment, I saw the alabaster mask of the queen slip to reveal the woman beneath. The little boy was her son. Hers and Caesar’s. The last thing she had of him, I thought, and infinitely precious, if her expression was anything to judge by. She took the child’s chubby hands in hers and spoke to him, tugging the little baby sidelock that hung over his ear straight and smoothing the creases from his tunic, and it seemed that the rest of the world just disappeared for her. The chaos of a courtyard full of warrior girls faded into the mist. She was home, with her son, and I was suddenly so very glad that we’d been the ones to get her there.
“Together again at long last. But the sacrifices we’ve made getting her here pierce the heart,” I heard Sorcha say, and turned to find her standing beside me, pale and drawn but steady, her gaze fixed on her dear friend, the queen. “I know.”
I almost wondered how she’d known exactly what I’d been thinking, but she was Sorcha. She knew me almost as well as I knew myself.
Cleopatra turned and looked over her shoulder at Sorcha, and they shared a long, silent glance. Then two women draped in pleated linen gowns appeared and stood waiting. Sorcha nodded and turned to me, reaching out to take my hand.
“The queen’s physician waits to see me,” she said, her fingers spasming weakly as she squeezed mine. I clutched at her, but she just lifted a hand to my cheek and smiled. “They’ll take care of me, Fallon,” she said. “Let them.”
I bit my lip. “I never should have . . .”
“What?” she asked. “Suggested we rescue my dearest friend from death or imprisonment or . . . whatever it is that they would have done to Cleopatra back in Rome if those Optimate bastards had gotten their hands on her?”