Kleopatra (47 page)

“It is plain that sooner or later a dispute between the Regency Council and myself is bound to erupt,” she said curtly.

“You seem determined to make that happen,” he answered.

“When it does happen, Rome will be the arbitrator between us. The senate might send Bibulus himself to settle the matter.
Have you thought of that? He is the Roman official in closest proximity to us. It would not serve me to let those who killed
his sons go unpunished.” Kleopatra had thought the matter through. Hephaestion was not a man to take risks, so she had to
override his advice when she thought it necessary. “Besides, those officers had no authority to murder anyone. How dare they?
I thought it wise to make an example of them to the others.”

“I believe we are about to get to the bottom of this entire incident,” Hephaestion said ominously. “The Regency Council is
waiting to see you.”

“Must I?”

“Cooperation may behoove you.”

“Very well. Send them in.”

Pothinus entered, followed by Theodotus, King Ptolemy XIII, who had just passed his twelfth birthday, and Princess Arsinoe,
who wore a bracelet on her upper arm that she had inherited from Berenike—a silver snake with an emerald for an eye. What
audacity, to wear the heirloom of a traitor into the queen’s office. The girl was, however, a striking beauty, resembling
Thea in face and in the voluptuousness of her body.

Ptolemy the Elder wore a formal robe that should have been reserved for a religious ceremony. Kleopatra wondered how far the
eunuch went in allowing the boy to play at his role of king. Short and pudgy, with small eyes and an excessively round middle,
already he had a second chin. With none of his mother’s good looks, he resembled his father to a large degree, though without
the artistic bent that had made Auletes’ quirky personality almost appealing.

“Greetings to you my sister and wife,” he said, sneering. The two had not spoken to each other in months. Now he looked at
her in what she could only interpret as bitter resentment, though a new smug quality had also settled into his demeanor.

“To what do we owe this visit?” Kleopatra asked. She would have liked to replace the word “visit” with “intrusion,” for that
was how she felt.

“Regarding the request of the sons of Bibulus for the Gabinian soldiers; regarding the acquiescence of the queen to that request;
and regarding the punishment of the officers allegedly responsible for the unfortunate slaying of the brothers. We are here
to protest that we were neither informed nor consulted by you.” Pothinus made the complaint without taking a breath. He was
well rehearsed. Theodotus nodded his head as Pothinus spoke.

Hephaestion was quick to answer the charge. “Her Majesty did not think it an issue grave enough to call a formal committee
to discuss. After all, she did not—could not—foresee the consequences of sending the Romans to meet with the officers.”

Pothinus ignored him. “We are here to inform you of the serious consequences of your actions that have grown to proportions
of which you remain unaware.”

“Is that so?” Kleopatra answered before Hephaestion could again intercede. Really, she had no patience for this castrated
fop. And she did not at all like Arsinoe’s icy stare. “Why is my sister present in this meeting? The princess holds no official
office, does she, or am I once again misinformed about the hierarchy of my government?”

The young king raised his robed arm, railing at Kleopatra. He blurted, “She is here because she is my true sister and wife
and companion. More than you.”

“My dear brother, if necessary, I shall produce the contract of our marriage, signed by everyone in this room save your other
sister. Have you forgotten the terms of our father’s will?”

“Have
you?
” he screamed. “You think you’re so smart.”

Pothinus put a hand on his shoulder to quiet him. Theodotus pursed his lips in disapproval of the outburst. Arsinoe fiddled
with a lock of her hair as if undisturbed by Kleopatra’s challenge to her presence. What do they know that I do not? Kleopatra
wondered. And what does the little imbecile mean by “his true wife and companion”?

“Your Majesty, I am afraid we are here to put you under house arrest,” Pothinus said, nonchalant, as if he were announcing
the most trifling matter.

“What?” Kleopatra jumped to her feet.

“How dare you talk to the queen in this manner?” said Hephaestion. “I am calling for the guard.” He moved to the door, opened
it, and two sentries walked in.

“Please sit down, sir,” said one of them politely to the Prime Minister. “I do not wish to harm you.”

“What is going on here?” demanded Kleopatra. She clutched the rim of her desk, suddenly the only solid thing within her grasp.

“Do sit down, Your Majesty,” Pothinus said. “There is no need for a display of emotion. We must do this for your own good.
You took it upon yourself to promise the soldiers to the Romans. You really should have called a formal committee. That much
should be obvious to you by now.”

“You are a puppet of the Roman mongrels, just like Father!” cried Ptolemy. “He sold us to the Romans, and you intend to do
the same. Well I won’t let you.”

This time, Arsinoe put her arm around her brother. “We won’t let you,” she said.

A fury rose in Kleopatra that she wished she could squelch. She could not think clearly. She could not think at all. The blood
had left her body and was pounding in her head. Her hands went cold. She tried to get up again, but did not think she would
be able to stand.

Hephaestion addressed the guards. “I demand to be told by what authority you are here. This is your queen. You will be punished
severely for your actions here today.”

“No sir, we are here to protect the queen,” answered the man. “The Gabinian soldiers are at the gates of the palace demanding
to see the queen. They are furious that the queen sent their officers to Syria for punishment. They are threatening to raze
the palace and burn the city. We are here to ensure that no harm comes to the queen or to her supporters.”

“As I said, there is no need for hysteria,” Pothinus said. “Our actions here today are in the best interests of the queen.”

“The best interests of everyone,” echoed Theodotus. “At this moment, Achillas is negotiating with the Gabinians to calm them.”

“You are just like our father, aren’t you?” said Ptolemy. “The people stood before the gates demanding his resignation, and
now they do the same for you.”

“And who put them there, you little fool?” she retorted. “Can you not see the handiwork of your cunning associates? You are
the puppet, my brother, and your master will be your demise.” Kleopatra looked at Pothinus, wishing she could slap the cinnamon
paint off his cheek.

“Your Majesty,” said Pothinus, rising. “You shall be confined to your quarters in the palace until the Regency Council determines
that it is safe for you to once again have your freedom. We cannot allow anything to happen to the queen, can we?”

“You are a fool, Pothinus,” she said, standing too. “I shall bring you down. I swear it on the memory of my beloved father.
He is betrayed by his children even in death.” She looked at her brother and sister. “Get out,” she said.

“We are going,” Pothinus replied, gathering his robes about him, wrapping himself in the starched floral linen as if it were
his armor. “We are going, but you are not. The soldiers will be at your door to intercept you, should you try to disobey.”

“Just let the soldiers have her!” shrieked Ptolemy, his fleshy young body shaking just like his father’s used to do when he
was angry. Arsinoe laughed.

“Come, Your Majesties,” said Pothinus, putting a protective arm around each child. “Let us leave the queen to her own meditations.”

Kleopatra turned her back on them and did not move until she heard the door slam. When she turned around again, the room was
empty but for Hephaestion, who sat glumly in his chair, and two sentries, gleaming swords drawn, who blocked her exit.

H
e was always tired, yet he rarely felt the need for rest. Caesar pondered this paradox as he stared into the narrow river,
swollen to dangerous levels by two days of ceaseless rain. The red, muddy water rushed by him, sweeping time and history past
his heavy, bloodshot eyes. He thought of the Greek philosopher Herakleitos, who said that one could never step into the same
river twice. If Caesar crossed the Rubicon, neither the river, nor Caesar, nor any of his men, nor Rome herself, would ever
be the same.

In minutes, he and his men could be on the other side in Italy, a hostile faction touching home soil. He found it amusing
that he was a quarter of a mile and five minutes from waging war on his own country. Would he do it? Would he cross the ever-changing
river, leaving behind, once and for all, the world as it presently was known?

Though he was in the company of five thousand men, he felt alone. He was fifty-one years old, older than the oldest of his
soldiers. He did not wish to wage war, particularly against his own people, but what choice had they given him? They had
trifled
with him, rejecting his numerous reasonable offers. The senate had recalled two of his legions—allegedly to join Pompey in
a campaign against Parthia—and as a sign of his good faith, Caesar had relinquished them. But Pompey did not leave for the
east. He remained in Rome, retraining Caesar’s men and keeping them in the city, where they might do Caesar harm if he obeyed
the senate, laid down his command, and entered Rome as a private citizen.

Did they think he was a fool? Demanding that he disband his legions while insisting Pompey keep his intact? Did they really
believe that he would enter the city of Rome without protection, where he would immediately be entrapped, imprisoned, and
put on trial for the abstruse constitutional violations they accused him of committing ten years ago?

In a final attempt to negotiate with them, Caesar had sent the tribunes Quintus Cassius and Marcus Antonius to Rome to deliver
his very modest demands and his plan for peace. But the senate intimidated the two, refusing them their power of veto, and
causing them to leave Rome in a hired taxi, disguised as slaves. A brilliant move on Antony’s part, he reflected. Antony,
who loved the company of actors, had played his role with relish. When the tribunes arrived at Ravenna and delivered the news
that the senate had not only rejected Caesar’s plans for peace but had also insulted the Tribunes of the People, Caesar stood
before his men and gave a speech.

“They have seduced Pompey and led him astray, through jealous belittling of my merits; and yet I have always supported Pompey
and helped him to secure advancement and reputation. In Rome’s recent past, armed force restored the tribunes’ power of veto.
Now, armed force is repressing and overriding it.

“I have been your commander for nine years; under my leadership, your efforts on Rome’s behalf have been crowned with good
fortune. You have won countless battles and have pacified much of Gaul and Germania. Now I ask you to defend my reputation
and stand against the assaults of my enemies.”

The men rushed to the cause. He did not have to ask even one man twice.

“To Ariminum!” they shouted, referring to the town across the Rubicon where the tribunes had gone to begin to raise support
for Caesar—the first stronghold Caesar might make in Italy if he was to cross the river and thus wage war on his opponents.

He was capable of this, capable of turning against the senate and prevailing, capable of marching these men into any foreign
land and obliterating the current regime, even if that regime was the Roman government. All he had demanded of the senators
were his rights. He had offered to disband the troops if Pompey would do the same. He wished only to be allowed to run for
consul in absentia, as was the will of the people, and to return with dignity to the internal politics of Rome. But the senate
would have him stripped of his legions, of his honor, of his rights.

In what dream world did they imagine he would cooperate with them?

“Sir, you hesitate.” Asinius Pollio, one of Caesar’s few officers who possessed both bravery and a scholarly mind, came to
the commander’s side, penetrating his solitude. Pollio’s polite demeanor and aristocratic features and fair-mindedness were
flawed only, in Caesar’s mind, by his youthful friendship with the arrogant menace, the poet Catullus. But Caesar had forgiven
him that and had spent more than one moment like this, reflecting on the possible outcomes of his commands, in the company
of the pensive young man.

Rain came once more, beating down upon the heads of the two men as they stood in the muck of the banks and stared at the racing
current of the river. “I am envisioning the horror wrought by the action I am about to take,” said Caesar.

“The men do not fear it, sir,” Pollio answered quickly.

“I am considering the misfortune the simple act of crossing the river shall have upon all mankind.”

“It is true, sir, that Roman soldiers are garrisoned everywhere. If we cross the river, we challenge them all. They must either
be seduced or defeated.”

“But if I do not cross the river, I must consider the misfortune I bring upon myself. As you know, prestige has always been
of prime importance to me, outweighing life itself. If I do not do this thing, I fear I cannot go on.”

“As I have said, the men are ready.”

This is what it came down to. The misfortune of mankind versus his own misfortune. He could do what the senate demanded—lay
down his arms and walk right into Rome and into their trap. And would all of mankind be better off if he did this? Perhaps
it would avert war, but in the long run, why would that be better than war? Men loved war. He would not disappoint those who
had supported him and believed in him despite the criticism he had taken in his long and illustrious career.

Who was to say that the fortune of Caesar was not to benefit all of mankind?

“Well then,” Caesar said in a low voice. “The die must be cast. Let the game begin.”