Excerpt of Cleopatra's Daughter by Michelle Moran

CHAPTER ONE

ALEXANDRIA

August 12, 30 BC

WHILE WE waited for the news to arrive, we played dice. I
felt the small ivory cubes stick in my palms as I rolled a
pair of ones.
“Snake eyes,” I said, fanning myself with my hand. Even the
stir of a
sea breeze through the marble halls of our palace did
little to relieve
the searing heat that had settled across the city.

“It’s your turn,” Alexander said. When our mother didn’t
respond,
he repeated, “Mother, it’s your turn.”

But she wasn’t listening. Her face was turned in the
direction of
the sea, where the lighthouse of our ancestors had been
built on the
island of Pharos to the east. We were the greatest family
in the
world, and could trace our lineage all the way back to
Alexander of
Macedon. If our father’s battle against Octavian went well,
the
Ptolemies might rule for another three hundred years. But
if his
losses continued. . . .

“Selene,” my brother complained to me, as if I could get our
mother to pay attention.

“Ptolemy, take the dice,” I said sharply.

Ptolemy, who was only six, grinned. “It’s my turn?”

“Yes,” I lied, and when he laughed, his voice echoed in the
silent
halls. I glanced at Alexander, and perhaps because we were
twins, I
knew what he was thinking. “I’m sure they haven’t abandoned
us,” I
whispered.

“What would you do if you were a servant and knew that
Octavian’s
army was coming?”

“We don’t know that it is!,” I snapped, but when the sound
of sandals
slapped through the halls, my mother finally looked in our
direction.

“Selene, Alexander, Ptolemy, get back!”

We abandoned our game and huddled on the bed, but it was
only
her servants, Iras and Charmion.

“What? What is it?” my mother demanded.

“A group of soldiers!”

“Whose men?”

“Your husband’s,” Charmion cried. She had been with our
family
for twenty years, and I had never seen her weep. But as she
shut the
door, I saw that her cheeks were wet. “They are coming with
news,
Your Highness, and I’m afraid—”

“Don’t say it!” My mother closed her eyes briefly. “Just
tell me. Has
the mausoleum been prepared?”

Iras blinked away her tears and nodded. “The last of the
palace’s
treasures are being moved inside. And . . . and the pyre
has been
built exactly as you wanted.”

I reached for Alexander’s hand. “There’s no reason our
father won’t
beat them back. He has everything to fight for.”

Alexander studied the dice in his palms. “So does Octavian.”

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