12 August, 30 BCE

A gentle breeze blowing in from the northwest caused a ripple on the silt-filled waters of the Delta. To the east the rising smoke from her lover's burning ships blended with the low hanging clouds. Cleo's swarthy hand draped over the port side of the barge was indistinguishable from the coffee coloured water. The Queen of Kings rested on the Persian rug that years before had been her introduction to the Roman world. Pillows made of the finest silks from the East propped her up. On her right sat a lidded reed basket of figs, their sickly sweet perfume mingled with the musky odor of death.
On shore Marc waved to her, his bronze breast plate lay at his feet of little use to him now. Weak from his wounds, Marc's voice no more than a whisper, he called to her. She could not hear him. Or she chose not to hear him. Either way, he was of no use to her now. Alone now except for the Eunuch at the helm they sailed south, away from Alexandria. At the age of 30, Cleo feeling her zenith had waned, her fate she reflected had been sealed. Her mood of despair was not a stranger to her. Many times she had faced ruin only to rebound with cunning and guile. Her intrigues and manipulations had allowed her to survive. She had no regrets. She felt no remorse. Satisfied that she had faced life's challenges she lifted the lid of the basket and reached inside.
She did not feel the first strike from the vipers. The second strike higher on her arm caused her to wince. She withdrew her arm from the basket and examined the four pin sized marks. Her royal blood oozed from the wounds. She marvelled at the colour and was reminded of the tapestries hanging in the Temple of Isis. Cleo lay back on her pillows, smiling. Drifting down her river she was home.