Astarte's Wrath (22 page)

“Don’t look,” Phoenix says. His hand covers my eyes as he lowers my head. “Look down and hide your face.”

But even with Phoenix masking the worst of the carnage, my gaze still travels over mutilated bodies; hands, torso, heads—victims of war that the Romans have yet to clear away.

A violent wave of sorrow washes over me and I choke on a sob.

I’ve witnessed violence and bloodshed before—have been the cause of it. I’m a guardian. I’ve been trained to be hardened against it. But this is my home. My people. I can’t overlook this massacre.

The sound of hammers pounding spikes into the crosses echoes through the boulevard, my insides juddering in rhythm. We pass the Soma, and the macehead of the pharaohs that adorned the Sun Gate lay broken on the thoroughfare. Hooks are grappled into the polished pink granite. Ropes dangle from the tetrapylon. I wonder if Octavian saw to the fall of our great city personally, doing the deed himself.

I wonder if he was strong enough to tear it down.

When we reach the door to Phoenix’s apartment, I glance over my shoulder, stilling my mind. Try to feel Candra.

“What are you doing?” Phoenix asks, ushering me inside the dark room.

“Looking for her.” I tug off the robe and settle down on his couch. “I know she can sense me.”

Phoenix searches his small eating area, then fills a goblet with watered wine. “Lunia gave our plans away, Star. That’s how the Leymak found us.”

I’m too tired to rehash the happenings between me and the enemy. And I don’t want to tread near Lunia. Candra may not have been able to locate my exact location in the desert without Lunia’s assistance, but within these walls, it’s only a short matter of time.

I pray we have enough.

“Trust me, Phoenix,” I say. “She knows I’m here. She knew I’d head straight for the city. Straight to Xarion.” I bow my head. A gust of air whips through the open window and a shiver wracks my body. “I just don’t know what she’s waiting for.”

Phoenix hands me the goblet along with a vile of clear liquid. Lavender tonic.

“Gods. Thank you.” I down the tonic and chase it with the red wine. Then I lie back, uncaring that I’m covered in filth.

Silence fills the room. It stretches between us. And as my eyes begin to shut, Phoenix breaks the quiet. “Antonius fell on his sword.”

“Isis,” I whisper. “And the queen?”

“She’s being held captive in the palace as Octavian’s prisoner.” He stretches out on his self-made bed of blankets and flops an arm over his eyes. “The battle was lost to Octavian quickly. Habi heard report that Cleopatra ended her own life once Octavian took control of the city. Habi said that Antonius didn’t even flinch, didn’t hesitate for one second before he drew his sword, knelt, and ran himself through.” He releases heavy breath. “He was brought to Cleopatra alive—and died in her arms.”

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

T
he 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.

My heart jumps in my throat. I crane my head to watch as Roman soldiers and two Leymak usher in Xarion. My eyes hurriedly inspect his body, searching for wounds, bruises, broken bones. Only I can’t help needing to see his eyes immediately—feel them on me. Other than a blackened eye, he’s not harmed. I release a repressed breath, able to breathe again.

“Star!” Xarion shouts. He struggles against the cuffs binding his wrists. The soldier gripping his restraints yanks the chain. He’s pulled to a stop and pushed on to his knees before the dais.

An ache closes around my throat, begging words to leave my mouth. But I hold my tongue. Instead, I meet his gaze and smile. It’s a bittersweet movement as my lips tremble into forced place.
I’ll save you
.

Octavian steps to the edge of the dais, forcing Xarion’s attention on him. Shaking his head, Octavian sighs. “Oh, Caesarion. Two Caesars are simply too many.”

The pit of my stomach roils with terror.
He can’t kill him now
. Not now. My lips part to draw Octavian’s attention, but Xarion’s quicker.

Pulling against his manacles, Xarion gets to his feet. Even though Octavian stands upon the dais, Xarion rises to look him directly in the eyes. “You’ve secured your throne, Octavian. Let the guardians go. They’re no threat to you.”

My heart plummets. I know how difficult it is for Xarion to set aside his pride and make a request of Octavian. But he has. For me.
Not now
, I plead to the gods surrounding me in stone form.

Octavian averts his gaze and eyes me and Phoenix. “You mean release the traitors?” He shakes his head. “I don’t believe I can do that by law, Caesarion.”

“Why not? Are you not powerful enough to make the laws?” Xarion’s attempt to chide the Roman is met with a sneer from Octavian.

Composing his features, Octavian chuckles. “Oh, I am. Be assured. But just as it does the people no good to have whores making false claims, I’m afraid I can’t allow traitors to live under my rule.”

“My mother is no whore,” Xarion growls. “And they’re not traitors. They were commanded by their master to hide me. They had no choice.”

“Ah,” Octavian says, lifting a finger. “That reminds me. Where are my manners?” A smile stretches his smooth face, and he turns toward Candra. “I believe your payment is due. The agreed upon relic for the king of Egypt.”

Candra glides forward, her arms and eyes incandescent. “Thank you, Octavian. It’s been an honor to aid you.” But she does not bow.

My hands slicks with sweat. My heart thrums in my ears.
Now
. This is the moment—

“One request first,” Octavian says, holding the
was
scepter just out of Candra’s reach.

Candra’s form stiffens. “Yes?”

“I believe it would be rude not to include the queen, don’t you?” His eyebrows rise into his blond waves. “Since she is the last reigning pharaoh, it would be tragic for her not to witness the freeing of her most devoted slaves.”

A slow smile slides across Candra’s face. “Agreed.”

Octavian snaps his fingers. The side entrance of the temple opens. Though I’m relieved to have the chance to look upon Cleopatra—to know she’s all right—I’d rather not have another Ptolemy contending for my protection. I pray Phoenix can get her out safely while I focus on Xarion.

First, two soldiers cross into the room, and then behind them, a death table is wheeled into the temple. The queen lies on her back, arms crossed over her chest.

Xarion’s cry echoes off the temple walls. The anguish in his voice rips my soul. I bow my head, trying to control the rage simmering in my veins, to focus on my
purpose
. But I can’t rein in the tremble of my limbs. Anger grips me so violently I squeeze my eyes closed, veiling the sight of my departed queen.

“You bastard!” Xarion shouts. He lunges forward, the chains rattling in protest.

“Me? I did not do this, Caesarion. Your mother took her own life.” He sighs. “With an asp, of all things. Not only a painful way to die, but cowardly.”

Fighting to break free of his captors, Xarion strains against his manacles and leaps toward Octavian again, but he’s yanked back. “I’ll have my revenge. I swear it.”

Ignoring Xarion’s threat, Octavian turns to Candra and extends the
was
scepter. “I grow tired of this affair, guardian. Let’s press forward. I have a whole country to annex.”

Candra nods once and steps forward to accept the amulet. “As vowed, I prepare to free the Narcolym and
loyal
Shythe”—she glances at me—“before my ascent.”

My brow furrows. Other than it’s a joy to disturb her moment, I could never keep from speaking out. I’m not much of a guardian, I suppose. But oh, how I will be once she begins her ritual. “Free them? Aren’t the Narcos already free?”