So she glared at her captors turned gift-bearers until they departed, then she disrobed.
If she had not just suffered the terror of almost being fed to their immortal hounds, she would have been unable to bear this indignity, washing herself with a single cloth she had to wet from a basin at her feet. But the rag was soft and the water just the right temperature, so she found herself grateful for them both.
And when she slid the dress over her skin, a wave of comfort washed over her. She knew instantly it was not solely the result of the material coming to rest on her skin. Perhaps the feel of this new garment had triggered this suddenly overpowering feeling, but its true source was far away. It was Sibyl Parker. Sheets of silk and a heavy comforter; that's what Cleopatra felt the kiss of in this moment. Someone was caring for and comforting this Sibyl Parker. Someone had placed her in a luxurious bed with fine linens. Just at the moment when this thought filled her with envy and anger, she heard Sibyl's voice, as clear as it had been in the dream.
We are coming, Cleopatra. Do not fear. We are coming for you, I promise.
She could hear the ocean, a great roar of surf, and when she allowed her eyes to drift shut, she saw the spectral outline of a blazing fireplace and the shadows of people passing before it. But then the vision was gone; Sibyl's voice, however, her memory of it, remained clear as the toll of a bell.
"Who?" she called out before she could stop herself.
The cell door opened. Her captors had never left, it seemed. And so, to cover this small outburst, she said quickly, "I am dressed. I'm ready to dine."
Who is coming, Sibyl? What real hope of rescue do they provide?
No answer.
Erratic the frequency of this connection, not as clear as it had been in the dream. And it seemed now to be based more in physical sensation than wild visions. Was it possible Sibyl chose not to answer, refused to tell her who was coming? Did Sibyl truly send a rescue party, or was Cleopatra about to fall prey to a second kidnapping?
No home on this day. No home, no refuge, no temple, no palace. Only those few memories she could still cling to and a resolve that felt like ice under her skin.
Scuffling sounds of boots on stone.
This time her gift-bearers brought chains once more.
She didn't fight them. What was the point? They were as strong as she was, and they outnumbered her.
They left her wrists free, but secured the ring around her neck and extended the attached lengths of chain on either side so that they might hold the other ends at a safe distance as they all walked together from the cell.
She wasn't just their prisoner anymore.
She was Sibyl Parker's as well.
36
Beneath sparkling electric chandeliers, the long dining table was set with a feast that could have served ten mortals. But the only person seated at the table was her host, who greeted her with a stare so immutable as to be statuesque.
Around the edges of the tablecloth, she caught glimpses of woven-pearl designs. The hardwood floors underfoot gleamed. The purple draperies on the wall of soaring windows off to her right were so long they puddled on the floor.
She was brought into this grand dining room in chains and delivered to the end of the table, opposite her handsome host at the head.
As she settled uneasily into the high-backed chair, she saw a small slip of paper resting on her empty plate.
It was a newspaper clipping. A story about a great cache of artifacts from Ptolemaic Egypt recently sold to private collectors. Archeologists and museum curators throughout the world were outraged. For these statues and coins may well have contained the actual likeness of Cleopatra VII, and they belonged in a museum.
What madness had beset the sands of Egypt? they cried. Was this just another fraud like the discovery of a tomb occupied by a madman pretending to be Ramses the Great? An illustration accompanied this article. A surprisingly accurate rendering of one of the statues she'd hidden inside the tomb to which she'd led Theodore Dreycliff. An illustration that bore a striking resemblance to her.
So this was how he had recognized her. Had he known her real name even as he tortured her with his hounds? How else to describe the speed with which he'd believed her?
But is it your real name? Will you still consider it your real name once your last memory of Alexandria is gone?
She blinked. Must not shed tears before this man. Must be strong. For soon, this strength might be all she had left.
If he had known her name as he tortured her, then he sought to break her spirit as well, and she could not allow him this. So she took the newspaper clipping and crumpled it in her fist as one might a dispatch from an enemy in war. Then, once she had crushed it into a ball, she dropped it to the floor.
She looked to her surroundings, willfully ignoring whatever reaction her host might have to this gesture of disrespect.
Through the windows, she saw only darkness. She could just make out the dim outline of the lone faraway building where they'd almost driven her into their pit full of hounds. On the walls above, tapestries depicting animal hunts and battles from times that had passed during her sleep of death. She felt here, as she had felt during her visit to Rome thousands of years before, as if all the adornments and lush fabrics were meant to hold back the ever-encroaching threat of wilderness and great forests and fields of green. Windows could not be left open without fear here. Fear of animals, fear of rain, fear of wildness.