They had wanted my mother, come for my mother, needed my mother. After all of the money, time and effort that Rome had spent to capture my mother, the infamous Pharaoh Cleopatra VII, they had to have something.
Caesar, that pathetic excuse, the mere mortal who had caused the death of men and women far greater than he, (may the Gods forgive him, for I never shall,) whether it was my eldest brother, his father, or my own parents.
I watch him carefully as he walks around my mother's palace, as if he owns the place. He picks up a bottle of her perfume, examines it for a moment, then slowly replaces it. He has already had everything evaluated.
He may not have found Cleopatra VIII, last true Pharaoh of Egypt, the embodiment of Isis, descended from Alexander the Great himself, but he has found something nearly as good; her children.
He may think that young as we are, we don't know of his plans for us, what his plans were for my mother. He would be wrong. I know his kind, for my own father was just as Roman as him, and if not for the slander, would likely still live and breathe this day, with my mother.
If he thinks that the women of Egypt, the women of the Polemic line, any woman born to the greatest Pharaoh would be pliant, stupid and illiterate like a Roman, he has much to learn.
