Pharaoh (17 page)

“Is that the best you can do?” Kleopatra had asked them.

“It is far better than having the months fall every year in a different season,” Sosigenes answered defensively.

“Or having the priests dictate which day of the week it is,” Caesar snapped.

And so they officially instituted the new calendar, making Rome’s already anxious population spend an additional ninety days
in a year that had been one of their most unhappy But the people of Rome were accustomed to waiting for their annual disasters-civil
war, bloodshed in the streets, proscriptions from the winners, heads of the latest accused of treason hanging in the Forum,
and finally, the floods. “At least in the new year, the floods will arrive in the proper season,” Caesar remarked.

Every year the Tiber rose over its banks and into the streets, forcing the city’s denizens to move their furnishings one story
up, were they lucky enough to occupy two floors of a house. If not, they were ankle deep in infested waters, wading in their
soggy housing until the deluge drained away. The wealthy, of course, owned homes on higher ground and were not affected. How
different from the munificent, life-giving annual inundation of the Nile, welcomed, prayed for, washing the crops and blessing
the people with food and prosperity. How apt, Kleopatra thought. In Rome, even the river brings dread.

The Romans made statues of beautiful gods to represent the river- mighty male and female figures in repose-and it was a miracle
that the gods did not rebel against them for it. What god consented to represent such pollution? Why was the Tiber so unclear?
Was it the sewage that was briskly swept from under the Roman houses and into its waters? Or perhaps it was all the bodies
of criminals and unsavory characters who had been flung into its torrents in the four hundred years of the city’s existence.

Cicero had stated as much last night. “The only proper treatment for one who has broken the law is to tie him up, put him
into a sack with a wild and hungry beast, and throw the screaming and remorseless bundle into the Tiber,” he had said in his
sonorous voice that invited no disputation. He had attended the banquet with his seventeen-year-old bride, Publilia, having
divorced his lifelong mate, Terentia, and married the teenager, who came with an enormous dowry that helped diminish his debts.
Now, it was explained to Kleopatra, his beloved daughter, Tullia, had just died, leaving him bereft. The bereavement irked
Publilia, who thought Cicero gloomy enough before Tullia’s death. Cicero was working frantically to raise money from other
sources so that he could send the girl back to her family.

“Is that really done?” Kleopatra asked about Cicero’s preferred
method of execution, not bothering to hide her horror. In Alexandria, quick-acting poison or beheading were the only means
of execution; not painless, perhaps, but expeditious.

“Of course,” he said condescendingly, as if talking to a naive child. “The law is sacrosanct. No one may break it without
repercussion. How are criminals punished in Egypt?”

“We do not throw them into the river that gives the land its life,” she replied. “Execution is a duty in Egypt, but never
a joy.” What would the dignified, religious Egyptians think of this bestial practice? They resented their Greek monarchs as
it was, the very people who had rescued them from the bitter tyranny of the Persians and brought order and prosperity to the
country. They resisted Kleopatra’s relations with Rome, not apprehending that only by alliance could she save them from domination
by these cruel men. What was the spiritual state of a country in which the man most revered for his political and philosophical
views advocated such expressions of cruelty? Would that every embittered Egyptian ear could have been at last night’s dinner.

Caesar’s banquet to introduce Kleopatra into Roman society had come off as a success, or so the queen believed. She hoped
that she had been able to observe this odd cast of characters who inhabited Caesar’s life without allowing them any indication
of her opinion of them. It was a strange assembly of family, allies, lovers, and enemies. Caesar’s confidence was so great
that he invited those who had taken up arms against him to his dinner table and treated them with deference. Perhaps fifty
guests attended, and Kleopatra wondered if any other than herself and those in her retinue who counted themselves Caesar’s
admirers could be called Caesar’s unqualified friends. Many of the guests had fought with Pompey against the dictator and
had been the recipients of his famous clemency-notably Brutus and Cassius. Cicero had not fought at all, but had gone over
to Pompey just the same. Not content to merely forgive, Caesar rewarded with extravagant posts those who had warred against
him. Brutus had been appointed governor of Cisalpine Gaul. Cassius was given a prestigious post in the provinces, which did
not satisfy him, and so he was in Rome pursuing yet more favor. And Cicero was given the commission to head the building of
Caesar’s new Forum.

It would have been difficult for Caesar to distance himself from these men entirely, since they were wrapped like snakes around
his pol
itics, his life, and his history, the ties so twisted that the lines between friend, brother, and enemy were ineluctably blurred.
Brutus, rumored to be Caesar’s son by Servilia, had recently married Porcia, daughter of Cato, Caesar’s mortal enemy, who
had spent the last decade of his life chiming away like a bell in a windstorm against Caesar’s tyranny. Cassius was married
to Servilia’s daughter Junia Tertia, Brutus’s half sister. Servilia, though present with her husband, Silanus, showed no sign
of resigning her post as primary female confidante in Caesar’s life, which irked Kleopatra. Servilia also lorded over Caesar’s
wife, Calpurnia, a somber, ugly woman who wore plain clothing and no jewelry while Servilia was draped in golden plunder from
Gaul that she proudly told everyone was a gift from Caesar. It was no surprise to Kleopatra that Calpurnia had borne Caesar
no children. She had a face and demeanor that would frighten semen away, while Servilia, at fifty, had a sensuality that slipped
past the lines in her face and the excess flesh that had settled around the curves of an undoubtedly once comely body.

Kleopatra wore a frozen half-smile on her face like the moon at mid-month. She was determined to be gracious, and yet it was
difficult with Servilia prattling on and on about the history of her gold necklace in front of herself and Caesar’s wife.
“It was the prize possession of Vercingetorix’s wife,” she said, stroking the glimmering square that hung just above her breasts.
Its big red garnets stared out like a demon’s eyes.
You look older when you gloat,
Kleopatra wanted to say, for Servilia’s smile made crinkles around her eyes and fat mountains out of her already heavy lids.
Calpurnia said nothing, but smiled with crooked weakness. Her face lacked symmetry, and Kleopatra wondered if it was because
she had not the vigor to raise both sides of her mouth. She seemed sluggish, passive, a woman worn down by gossip, loneliness,
and duty, the last comprising the two most prominent syllables in a Roman woman’s vocabulary. It had been explained to Kleopatra
that Calpurnia was the daughter of Piso, one of Caesar’s wealthier supporters. She had been given to Caesar in marriage to
solidify the friendship and so that Caesar might have full use of her dowry for his military ambitions. While Caesar traipsed
about the world, Calpurnia skulked about their small townhouse in Rome, reading books, spinning cloth like a good Roman matron,
and waiting for him to return. When he returned, he spent so little time with her that he might as well have been away. Thus
did
Hammonius gather this gossip by spending as much time as possible in the beds of rich Roman women. Kleopatra felt some sympathy
for Calpurnia, imagining what her life must be, how lonely, and without the comforts of children. But Hammonius assured her
that a Roman woman’s first love was duty to family, and if Calpurnia obliged her father by being a patient and silent wife
to the great Julius Caesar, then she was gratified.

“How easy for you to say, Hammonius, when the world itself is your home, when you have freedom, money, and love in your life,
and no one save the queen of Egypt to report to,” Kleopatra had admonished the big bear of a man in her service. Why did men
think women were so unlike themselves?

Servilia was still on the subject of her necklace. “The Gauls may be savages, but they certainly know how to work a piece
of gold. Never have I seen such fine hammering.” She traced her middle finger around the square’s perimeter as she dared to
eye the queen, who regarded her back. “Calpurnia does not care to wear gold,” Servilia said. “But Your Majesty obviously has
a great appreciation for a fine piece of jewelry, if I may say so. You must encourage Caesar to show you his collection from
the tribes of Gallia Belgica. The earrings alone are a phenomenon. You must ask Caesar to make a gift to you. They would be
so lovely on Your Majesty’s delicate lobes.”

“I wonder how they would compare to the treasures of the ancient Egyptian pharaohs which are in the Royal Vaults,” Kleopatra
said dis-missively To whom did this conniver think she spoke? And yet Servilia was hardly content with female intrigues. The
tentacles of her influence had no boundaries. In the middle of a discussion with an old woman about the splendid olives sold
on Velabrum Street in the Aventine Hill, she interrupted a discussion between Caesar and Brutus, the latter pleading a case
for Cassius, who reclined on a couch at the opposite side of the room with a snarl on his face. “I don’t know why you keep
passing over him for key appointments,” she said, poking her head between the two men and raising a brow toward Cassius. “He
is married to my Tertia now and he is family, Julius. Where is that famous forgiveness of yours, my dear? He has apologized.
What more does he have to do to prove himself?”

He might wipe the arrogant look off his face and be civil,
Kleopatra thought,
but she said nothing, astonished at Servilia’s insolence. Kleopatra’s opinion of Roman women had not changed in the ten years
since she had last visited the city. Either they were overly bound to duty and knew no life outside the small domestic circle
in which they reared their children and bolstered their men for the rigors of public life, or they were domineering and determined
usurpers of power. She wondered on which side of the fence she would have fallen if she had been born an ordinary Roman girl,
and she feared she knew.

Servilia was whispering to Caesar, “You so favor Marcus Lepidus, and I understand it is because he is rich, darling. I don’t
fault you. He’s my son-in-law, too. But you are positively hurting Cassius’s feelings and turning him away from you again.”
She turned to Brutus. “Isn’t that right, dear?”

Brutus tilted his head to the right and back again in agreement with his mother. “I have said my piece on his behalf, Mother,
but Caesar is Caesar and not to be commanded.”

“Perhaps not by you, dear,” she answered, looking directly at Kleopatra. “But a woman has her ways.”

“For our Royal Guest of Honor, whose great ancestor founded her magnificent city after a dream vision from the blind poet
he so loved.” Hermogenes the singer bowed to the queen, his springy curls toppling forward. He thrust his head and hair back
dramatically and began his song. Kleopatra relaxed to the lovely lilt of his tenor voice singing Hecuba’s sorrowful lament
as she awoke after the fall of Troy, wondering if the ignorant women of Rome even knew that he had referred to Alexander,
who was guided by Homer in a dream to the pastoral seaside fishing village where he set down the perimeters of what was now
Alexandria. The singer’s sweet notes were accompanied only by the delicate strings of a lyre, the instrument Kleopatra’s mother,
who died when Kleopatra was so young that she could only conjure her music in fantasy, was said to have plucked ever so gently.
Thank the gods for good Greek music that stopped the venomous chatter of these Roman mouths, the words whose poison competed
for space with their food and wine. Did they not know that her command of their language was
as good as their own? That she understood every subtle insinuation made about herself and Caesar? The songs were a glorious
respite, even though the Romans ate noisily through the performance, paying no heed to the singer’s grace and nuance. But
the queen smiled broadly at him, motioning one of her servants to send him a message that she would receive him at a later
date and gift him with a special treat from Egypt.

Iras had knotted Kleopatra’s hair too tightly, and she longed to let it down to make her headache go away. There would be
no escape, however, until late into the evening, after everyone was sloppily drunk enough to have their servants cart them
away. After two blissful songs, Hermogenes was dismissed by the long arm of Cicero, which looked to Kleopatra like an old
lizard, his five insistent fingers forming a craggy snout. Cicero reached into the deep folds of his tunic and pulled out
a document. He was going to read his own work to the guests. She had suffered this indulgent Roman custom as a girl of twelve,
but back then she had been allowed to fall lazily asleep against her father’s grand belly. Now, as queen and guest of honor,
she would have no such privilege. Cicero had a long, pointy face and a nose to match. At perhaps sixty years of age, he was
thin, and like many intellectuals, lacked any indication of physical vitality-that is, until he spoke.