A fist of apprehension closed around my heart as I set off across the practice arena and slipped through a breezeway, into the outer yard, heading toward the massive wooden gates that opened out onto Lake Sabatinus, where the charioteers would race their carts. The gates were carved with scenes of women fighting in various settings—against each other, against wild beasts, on horseback and in chariots, throwing spears and shooting arrows—and they stood open.
Out on the lake, the Aegyptian queen’s barge was moored to the ludus pier. The bow and stern of the elegant watercraft were carved like bundles of reeds tied together and painted in red and gold and blue. I could hear women’s laughter drifting from the large tent pitched in the middle of the broad deck. I started down the beach toward where the dock jutted out past the gleaming line of white foam of the water’s edge.
For a brief, fanciful moment, I imagined that Nyx would suddenly appear in her chariot to chase me down the strand and crush me under hooves and iron-rimmed wheels.
Of course, she didn’t. But there was someone else there, standing on the landward side of the pier. I squinted and saw it was Thalestris, and I saw that she was armed. I didn’t think there was any way the grim fight mistress would let me near my sister tonight. But when she saw me approaching, Thalestris seemed to hesitate a moment. Then she loped up the gangplank and ducked into the tent. I waited on the beach, wondering. Guards armed with short, powerful-looking bows stood on the deck, fore and aft of the tent, watching me with stern gazes.
After a few moments, Thalestris reappeared and beckoned me with a curt wave of her hand. The mist lay heavy on the dark mirror of the Sabatinus, and the only sound was the lapping of wavelets on the barge as I stepped aboard. The white-and-gold fabric of the tent pavilion billowed gently in a bare hint of breeze off the shrouded waters of the lake.
Silently, Thalestris ushered me into the tent and left me there.
Inside, as my eyes adjusted to the dim light of hanging oil lamps and a gently glowing brazier, I could make out two figures reclining opposite each other on Roman couches. My sister and Cleopatra, queen of Aegypt. Up close, I saw that she bore little resemblance to any of the people I’d already met who claimed descent from that fabled land. Of course, I remembered hearing that it was because she was actually more Greek than anything. I’d also heard her called ugly and awkward, but I thought she was beautiful in a strange, compelling way. An overlong nose and eyes that were huge beneath strong, arching brows gave her a feline quality, and her face was framed by a helmet of thick-twisted braids held in place with gold and turquoise beads. Her dress was made of layers of sheer, pleated linen that floated out around her exquisitely.
She gazed at me with a frank, open curiosity, and I wasn’t sure how to react in that moment. When I’d been the daughter of Virico, king of the Cantii, I’d occasionally been called upon to play gracious hostess to a gang of unruly Celt chieftains, but this? I almost forgot about Sorcha for a moment. I was intently aware, suddenly, of my unbrushed hair and the creases in the tunic I wore.
And the iron collar around my neck.
Nervously, I looked over to the woman whose features were as familiar to me as my own. My sister had barely aged.
“You’ve grown,” she said by way of greeting.
“It’s been a long time since you left us.” My voice sounded weirdly strangled to my ears. “I was just a little girl.”
“You were hardly that.” Her gazed roamed over me, but her face remained impassive.
I felt my heart thudding in my chest and was overwhelmed with the urge to run to her and throw my arms around her, weeping with the joy of having found her again. My brave, beautiful sister. I quashed the impulse mercilessly.
“I’m surprised you remember what I looked like at all,” I said instead. “Do you even remember my name?”
“Don’t act the wounded child,” she said. She turned back to Cleopatra. “Majesty, I am sorry for this one’s intrusion—and her behavior.”
“Oh no.” Cleopatra held up a hand. “No need to apologize, believe me. I’m well acquainted with the . . . frictions, shall we say, that can arise between siblings. Especially sisters.”
“Your majesty is too gracious.”
“Not at all.” She waved her hand. “I am honored to bear witness to a family reunion. Please, forget I’m even here.” She grinned, a slightly feral expression, and winked at me.
I remembered having heard gossip among the ludus girls that Cleopatra’s sister, Arsinoe, had tried—unsuccessfully—to wrest control of the Aegyptian throne from her. Cleopatra had wanted her killed, but Caesar had other, perhaps crueler ideas. He spared Arsinoe so that he could trot her out like a trained animal in a victory parade of his captive enemies during his upcoming Triumphs.
Clearly, Sorcha had told the queen who I was and how I’d come to be at the ludus. And yet she hadn’t seen fit to reveal herself to me before the ceremony. “Why?”
The word tore from my lips. Sorcha frowned at me.