I wrap my arms around my midsection, as if I can guard against the anguish threatening to overwhelm me. “And what of Habi?”
Before Phoenix answers, he lowers his arm and angles his head toward me. “Habi was consumed with such guilt that he too took his life by sword.” He shakes his head. “The stories I’ve heard—”
He doesn’t have to complete his thought. I understand. Our world has been changed forever, and it’s too painful. I squeeze my eyes closed, my grief weighting my chest like a sack of bricks. I imagine Cleopatra heart-broken, cradling her husband. Then only to learn that the son she was desperate to get away from Octavian has been captured—
A tear slips down my check. I’ve failed her.
The linen curtains flutter in the breeze, soothing my fatigued mind. I allow the low, distant rhythm of the ocean to claim me for sleep.
At the sound of a bang, my eyes snap open.
Shouts and heavy footfalls surround the room. Before I rise, I summon my Charge—but am knocked back down as the pommel of a sword butts my head.
“Guardian Astarte. Guardian Phoenix. You’re hereby under arrest for the crime of treason against Rome.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The morning sun has yet to grace the sky. Pale violets and deep blues color the expanse against the ocean skyline, shading my tattered clothes in drab grays.
Phoenix and I march down the Street of the Soma with swords pointed at our backs. Six Narcolym Guardians accompany the numerous Roman soldiers as they steer us through the Alpha District. I should feel honored they view us such powerful threats as to warrant a procession. But I don’t feel anything but disgust. I pull the collar of my robe tighter around my neck to hide my necklace. I won’t lose it to these brutes.
Keeping my gaze straight ahead, my vision unseeing, I try to ignore the crucified and the destruction. But it is everywhere. Isis, have mercy.
There is no plan. I knew when I set out for Alexandria that this was my fate. I’m only surprised it’s taken Candra this long to come for me. But she has, and now she’s summoning me to boast her great victory. She wants me to witness her transformation into a god.
I cut my eyes toward Phoenix. He strides with his head high, his slave armbands displayed proudly around his biceps, even though the other Narcos no longer bear ties to their previous binds. I’m torn between regret and gratitude. Regret that Phoenix is to be punished alongside me. Gratitude that he’s remains alongside me—that I’m not facing this alone.
In my last moments on this earth, I vow to somehow secure his escape. My friend won’t die if I can prevent it.
Our imprisoners navigate us toward the recently constructed Caesarium. Cleopatra had it commissioned to honor Caesar, and intended it to be her husband’s sanctuary—his own cult of worship. I know Octavian is in there. The Roman has chosen Caesar’s temple itself to declare his triumph. And as we’re traversed up the marble steps, I analyze every possible means of escape, every possible scenario of how to prevent the inevitable. But only one crippling truth is the outcome.
I’m not leaving here alive.
I’ll do what I must to save Xarion, and that means someone is going to have to sacrifice themselves for his freedom. I choose that to be me.
The high marble doors creek open, and we’re pushed inside. The scent of sandalwood and sage invades my senses; the scents of the gods. I wonder if Fadil is here. Though he must be distressed over Cleopatra’s defeat, still, I suspect he’s gloating as Octavian strips the city of its “sacrilege.” Tearing down statues and monuments of the hybrid Greco-Egyptian gods.
I suppose we shouldn’t have mocked the old sorcerer. His prophecy has come true.
Soon, Roman gods will adorn our great palaces and temples. With Octavian’s face replacing them all. And who knows how the Romans will document our story—our history. I scoff at the thought.
We’re sent to our knees before an altar. Phoenix bites out a curse.
A smoking copper burner scents the air, and my gaze follows the wisps as black pervades the misty gray beside them.
Candra.
As her form materializes, her face alights with conceit. Golden wire is weaved through her plaited hair. Machinate beads cap the ends. Her clothing looks as if she raided the queen’s wardrobe, choosing the most elegant Egyptian threads to prepare for crossing into immortality. She looks like the pharaohs of old. The gods.
I grit my teeth, suppressing the urge to tear the dress from her body, rip the beads from her hair.
She eyes me serenely, her lips tugging into a sickeningly sweet smile. But I’m not here for her pleasure, though she may think it. I give her little attention, a fact she visibly disdains, and search the central temple for Xarion.
Giant marble doors part from a side entrance, and four soldiers lead in what I can only assume is the Roman Octavian. For all our troubles, I’m disappointed. I expected a giant. A god-like man, fierce and commanding. This man, though certainly attractive, is almost puny. Blond locks frame his young, tanned face, and his ears poke out a little too far
from his head.
Octavian tosses his crimson cape over one shoulder as he struts toward the center of the dais. “Bring the boy,” he orders, and the soldiers open the temple door.