Cleopatra Confesses (24 page)

Caesar has something more to say: Arsinoë and eleven-year-old Ptolemy XIV are to become king and queen of Cyprus. They look at each other, stunned. Though I had not expected this, I welcome it. I no longer trust Arsinoë any more than I did Tryphaena or Berenike, and I will feel much safer with my troublesome younger sister sent away to rule a distant kingdom.

A month after Caesar makes this announcement, a public celebration accompanies my marriage to my brother. The ceremony involves only placing our signatures on a papyrus scroll, but the
common people of Alexandria expect wine to flow in the streets, animals to be slaughtered and roasted in open pits, and street musicians to provide entertainment, and so I order it.

Before the so-called celebration begins, Charmion comes to me, the first I have seen her since Lady Amandaris arranged my delivery to Caesar’s quarters. She bows low and then kneels. “I humbly request your permission to speak, my queen,” she says, and I know from the formal words and respectful tone that things have again changed between us. I wonder if she disapproves of my new life with Caesar.

I take her hands and raise her to her feet. “Charmion, I’m so glad you’ve come. I’ve longed to talk to you. So much has happened!”

“You had only to send for me, mistress,” she says with a note of reproach.

“You’re right,” I concede with a sigh. “But everything is so much different with Caesar in my life. Nothing is quite what I expected. Though my brother is now officially my husband, I dislike him more than ever, and he is even less fond of me.”

“I know. And that is why I have come today, my queen. To beg you to excuse me from performing tonight at your banquet.”

“But I need to have at least one friend there!” I cry.

“You have Caesar!” For a moment we gaze at each other. Then she says, “As you wish, my queen. I shall dance.”

The banquet is scarcely bearable. I regret asking Charmion to do something she does not want to do. My brother-husband gets drunk and vomits. I can hardly wait for it to end so that I can shut myself in my quarters. I do not even want to talk to Caesar.

But later that night when Caesar comes to my rooms, I open the door to him and welcome him into my embrace.

Chapter 49

A
RSINOË

I wish I could say that matters turn out well, but they do not. My marriage to Ptolemy XIII is little more than a month old, but we can scarcely tolerate the sight of each other.

He is the least of my worries. Caesar has learned that the abominable Pothinus smuggled a secret message to Achillas, advising him to march westward to Alexandria from Pelusium with Ptolemy’s army. Now Achillas, with twenty thousand Egyptian foot soldiers and a cavalry of two thousand horsemen under his command, approaches the city walls; Caesar’s forces number only four thousand Roman soldiers. I had warned him that this was likely to happen, but Caesar is not used to taking advice from a woman—even one who is well acquainted with the warlike nature of men.

Caesar orders Pothinus seized and brought to him. The guards drag him in and fling him at Caesar’s feet. Seated at
a table studying a scroll, Caesar barely glances at Pothinus, a quivering mass of flesh begging for his life. “You do not deserve to live,” Caesar says, and signals the guards. “Take him away.”

“Shall we hold him prisoner, sir?” asks the guard in charge.

Caesar, frowning, shakes his head, his attention again on the scroll. “No. Kill him. He is a traitor.”

Pothinus weeps piteously as the guards haul him away. Soon after, the guard returns and presents Caesar with a bloody knife. “The blood of the traitor, my lord,” he says.

I am present for all of this, and I have not a single moment of regret that Pothinus is dead.

The fighting between Egyptians and Romans goes on month after month. During this awful time, we are all living in the king’s palace as the guests—or maybe as the prisoners—of the Roman general: my angry brother-husband, my bewildered younger brother Ptolemy XIV, my haughty sister Arsinoë, soon to be twenty—and I. The twenty-second anniversary of my birth passes unnoticed, although I make special offerings to Isis to honor her festival.

I will be relieved when Ptolemy XIV and Arsinoë finally sail for Cyprus, for my sister has grown increasingly argumentative. “This is all your fault!” she screeches at me. “You seduced Caesar and brought all of this down on us!”

“No, it is not my fault,” I tell her wearily. “I have not caused this to happen, and I can do nothing to stop it.”

Arsinoë does not listen. I hardly expect her to. But why has Caesar not sent her away?

Her mentor, Ganymede, is clearly behind Arsinoë’s rebelliousness. I have underestimated this man. He is of average
height and displays an ordinary appearance and on most occasions an unremarkable manner, but his intellect is of the highest order. Ganymede is both cunning and vicious. His loyalty is entirely to himself.

Ganymede helps Arsinoë to escape from the palace. For reasons I cannot fathom, she has become popular among the Egyptians, and soon the crowds are swarming through the streets, shouting her name and proclaiming her their queen and pharaoh.

I am cast aside by my people, while Arsinoë sits in her encampment by the city walls and calls herself queen.

“Surely this is not what my father wanted!” I rave, livid with anger but powerless to change a thing.

Chapter 50

G
ANYMEDE

Caesar is absent for days at a time, mounting defensive positions against Achillas and his men, who outnumber Caesar’s army five to one. I remain in the king’s palace, now Caesar’s—for my own safety, Caesar says. Am I Caesar’s prisoner or his lover? I am not quite sure.

Irisi makes her usual rounds at the marketplace and reports that Caesar has ordered stone barricades built around the palace quarter. For a while I do feel safer. Then, only days later, Monifa rushes in, breathless and alarmed. “Caesar has sent an expedition into the harbor with orders to set fire to the Egyptian ships anchored there! They are burning, mistress!”

I rush up to the roof of the palace, from which I have a clear view of the spectacle in the harbor. But what I see horrifies me. The fire has spread from the harbor to the shore. Prevailing winds from the north have swept blazing timbers
from the burning ships into the royal quarter. A sudden burst of sparks leaps skyward, followed by a massive tongue of fire and a billowing plume of black smoke. I cry out, for I know exactly where those flames are coming from. Alexandria’s Great Library is burning.

I send Yafeu to find Charmion. My messenger is gone for such a long time that I fear for his safety as well as hers. Much later, Charmion, smeared with soot, races up the stairs to the roof, where, alone and distraught, I have kept watch for hours.

“I’m so glad you received my message!” I exclaim as we embrace.

“Message? I have no message from you, Cleopatra. But I knew you would need me, and so I came.”

She brings me the crushing news that a large part of the Library of Alexandria and much of the world’s finest collection of literature, art, and science, hundreds of thousands of papyrus scrolls gathered by my Ptolemy ancestors, has been reduced to a pile of glowing ash.

“No doubt it can be rebuilt, mistress,” she says, trying to comfort me. “I am sure you can find ways to replace many of the scrolls.”

“And I will,” I promise her, “as soon as I am in power again.”
Whenever that will be.

Arsinoë blames Achillas for this disaster. At her encampment she orders the general arrested, tried, and beheaded, all in the space of a single afternoon, and installs Ganymede at the head of the Egyptian forces. Ganymede quickly proves to be an exceptional general—almost as gifted as Caesar. He builds catapults and other war machines and launches a fierce attack on
the Roman defenses. At the same time he manages to divert seawater into the underground aqueducts that carry fresh water from the Nile to vast cisterns supplying the entire city. This is far worse in military terms than the burning of the library.

Caesar paces restlessly. “Never have I faced such a clever adversary as this Ganymede!” he fumes, pounding his fist into his palm.

An idea strikes me, and I interrupt his pacing and seize his hands. “Listen to me, my love!” I tell him urgently. “Alexandria is built on limestone. I learned that long ago from Demetrius, my old tutor. Limestone holds water. If you dig into it, Demetrius used to say, you will find fresh water.”

Caesar stares at me. Then he sweeps me into his arms, lifts me off my feet, and kisses me hard. “Brilliant, Cleopatra! We shall start digging at once!”

He gathers all the men under his command and orders wells to be dug in every part of the city. As I predicted, he finds an abundance of fresh water—just in time, too, for thirst and panic have already begun to undermine his troops. Within days of the water crisis being resolved, military reinforcements arrive from Rome. Caesar is jubilant.

But his jubilation is short-lived. Ganymede is reportedly rebuilding his burned-out Egyptian navy, commandeering ships from up and down the Mediterranean coast, even resorting to stripping the wooden roofs from houses to build more ships. Caesar and I are dining alone, discussing this development, when Irisi bursts in, tearful and breathless: “My queen,” she cries, her voice breaking, “the royal boat! It has been destroyed! Captain Mshai was stabbed to death and his body thrown into the lake. Ganymede has ordered his men to use the wood from your boat to build his own warship.”

I have scarcely taken in the devastating news when a messenger informs Caesar that Ganymede’s navy is preparing to attack. “At sunrise tomorrow, my lord,” says the messenger.

“How is this possible?” I want to know. “It is almost beyond belief that he has the ships for such an attack!”

“And the foolhardiness to try it,” Caesar replies angrily. He calls for a servant to bring him his cloak of imperial purple. “This is the battle that will end the war,” he declares, fastening the gold clasp.

It is all happening too fast. “I pray for your safety, my lord,” I whisper.

“You have nothing to fear on my behalf, Cleopatra,” he says, and kisses me hurriedly. “Tomorrow at this time, we shall celebrate my victory.” He strides from the room, the purple cloak swirling behind him.

What does your victory mean?
I wonder, staring after him.
That I shall again be queen?

I dare not think the unthinkable:
And what if you lose?

Chapter 51

T
HE
B
ATTLE

When the door has closed behind Caesar, I scarcely know what to do next. Irisi, seeing her duty, takes my hand and urges, “Come, mistress. It is best to sleep while you can.”

But sleep is impossible, given the circumstances. I am on the roof of the palace well before sunrise, ready to observe the battle from this vantage point. It is both terrible and thrilling to watch. The adversaries are well matched, but I am confident that Caesar will triumph.
Is he not the greatest general in the world?

The fighting goes on all day, the advantage shifting from Caesar’s ships to Ganymede’s and back again. Catapults hurl rocks, and men raise ramps to board enemy ships for hand-to-hand combat. In the smoke and din and confusion it is impossible to determine who is winning the battle.

Charmion somehow manages to find a way into the palace
and comes to keep watch with me. I am grateful for her company. She tries to coax me to eat something, but I have no appetite. When Caesar does not return by the time servants begin to light the lamps, I fear the worst. Charmion and I sit and stare at each other numbly as water drips monotonously through the clepsydra, the water clock, and still there is no word of Caesar.

More hours pass, and I send out servants to inquire, but no one knows anything. I am wracked with worry. Charmion offers to massage my shoulders, and I allow it.

“I believe that you truly love this man,” Charmion says, her fingers gently coaxing the stiffness from my neck.

“I do. I love him with every part of my being!” In my weariness and worry I begin to reveal my feelings. Merely speaking Caesar’s name gives me comfort and pleasure. “Years ago, when I was very young, I felt desire for Marcus Antonius, the cavalry commander. Do you remember him?”

“Of course I do! He was so handsome!”

“Yes, he was, but I never thought much about real love until I met Caesar,” I tell her. In whispers I confide my most profound desire: “Though he is more than thirty years older than I, I wish to become Caesar’s wife.”

“But does he not already have a wife?” Charmion asks. “And are you not the wife of Ptolemy XIII?”

With a grimace I brush aside the mention of my brother-husband. “You know that Ptolemy is not really a husband—he is still a boy. That situation can be dealt with, if Caesar chooses to do so. Caesar forced us together, and Caesar can surely force us apart. But you are right—he has a wife in Rome. Her name is Calpurnia. His first wife, Cornelia, bore him his only child, Julia, and both are dead. He divorced his second wife, Pompeia,
when he suspected her of adultery. ‘The wife of Caesar must be above reproach,’ he told me. And now there is Calpurnia. ‘A fine woman,’ he says, and I have no doubt of that. But she is barren and has given him no children, no son to carry on his name. And that grieves him deeply.”

My tongue is loose now. We are no longer young girls confiding childish secrets, but grown women. Our lives are widely separated by our circumstances, but we share a deep bond of affection for each other. I know that I can trust Charmion, and I continue to open my heart to her.

“Perhaps,” I suggest, “there’s some charm that will cause him to forget Calpurnia and stay here with me.”

“I’ll ask my mother,” she promises. “She’s an expert in such matters.”

I feel encouraged. Lady Amandaris kept my father’s love for twenty years. Now, if the gods are willing—and if he has miraculously survived the battle—she will show me how to keep Caesar’s.

Sometime in the darkest hour of the night, when I have nearly given up hope, there is a loud clatter and the sound of voices below. Charmion and I rush down from the rooftop as Caesar stumbles in, exhausted but mostly unharmed, and I fly into his arms. Charmion discreetly disappears. I help my lover out of his clothes—his purple cloak is torn and muddy—and call for sponges and a basin of warm water. While I gently wash his bruised and aching body, he describes what happened.