Pharaoh (18 page)

He began: “My friends, Your Majesty, Great Caesar, honored guests, I would like to read from a philosophical dialogue I started
to compose at my beloved home in Tuscany. In my bereavement at the death of my daughter, only philosophy has given me comfort.”

Eyes immediately turned to Publilia, who reclined on Cicero’s couch in his absence, twirling a lock of her hair. If she caught
the slight to herself, she gave no indication.

He continued: “And so I have set upon the task of exalting the worth of that great discipline in daily life, and the further
task of proving that the wise man is always happy. I dedicate this work to my dear friend and protégé, Marcus Brutus, who
is a kindred soul in the pursuit of a virtuous life.”

He unrolled his paper and read, holding it as far from his eyes as his long arms could reach. “Would obscurity or unpopularity
prevent the wise man from being happy? No, I say. We must ask ourselves whether the popular affection and glory we so long
to win are not more burden
than pleasure. It is imperative to understand that popular glory is not worth coveting, and that true dignity is in knowing
that the true glory is in not having any glory!

“As the musician does not adjust his melody for the taste of the multitude, then why should the wise man follow the pleasure
of the crowd? Surely it is the height of foolishness to attach importance to the opinion of the masses when one looks down
upon them as uneducated workers. The truly wise thing is to despise all our banal ambitions, all honors bestowed upon us by
the crowd. The trouble is that we never do manage to do so until it is too late, until we have good reason to regret that
we had not looked down upon them before! For one avoids troubles if one refuses to have anything to do with the common herd.”

Kleopatra watched Caesar during the reading. How pointed did Cicero have to be before Caesar interrupted him? Why should he
tolerate-smile through-this criticism of his populist leanings in his own home? At his triumph, Caesar had given three hundred
twenty thousand citizens one hundred denarii, ten pecks of corn, and six pints of oil each-acts of extraordinary generosity
for which the people loved him. Hammonius had described the looks of gratitude on their faces as Caesar made his speech about
sharing the glory and the riches of the empire with ordinary citizens. How dare this man criticize his actions?

Kleopatra scanned the faces of the guests, who were smiling placidly while they ate Caesar’s food and drank his wine and accepted
gifts from his mistress and ally. Brutus listened intently to Cicero, as if he had never heard such wisdom uttered from human
lips; Servilia struggled with a partially cooked egg; Cassius-if Kleopatra was correct- listened not at all but eyed Brutus’s
pretty wife, Porcia; and the rest continued with their dinners. Not one objection was raised, not even by the host himself.
He just grinned ironically at Cicero as if the orator were reciting a dialogue on the treatment of farm animals.

Cicero had now leapt to the subject of the miseries of exile, another implicit criticism of Caesar, who he blamed for keeping
him eleven months at Brundisium after the war in Greece.

“Besides, one can hardly give credence to the opinion of a community which drives good and wise men away,” he was saying as
Kleopatra sat on her hands to control herself. Her stomach churned at Cicero’s attack and Caesar’s lackadaisical attitude.
Did no one understand? Or
did all understand, and were taking pleasure in this insult to the man who had shown himself to be their better? Kleopatra
suspected the latter. Were they testing at this close range the mercy and forgiveness of Caesar? Were she in command, she
would call in Caesar’s guard who sat eating directly outside the tent and have each guest systematically slain.

“The next section of the dialogue is a discussion of how even the blind should be happy,” Cicero said, unrolling yet one more
page.

Kleopatra thought that that would be the perfect moment to tie his hands, shut his mouth, and put his eyes out. The Romans
may like spectacle, but they could not compete with authentic Greek theatricality. She was angry, true, but also deeply worried.
Caesar had no qualms about sweeping across continents, conquering tribes and lands, but he did not move to put these insolent
Romans in their place in his own home. She would interrogate him afterward on his motivation, or lack of it. She hoped he
would send Calpurnia back to town and spend the night at the villa; in fact, she would insist upon it. Mercifully, none of
the diners would sleep at the villa, since it was fully occupied by Kleopatra’s party.

Kleopatra could not breathe. She felt suffocated, as if the heavy red billows of the tent above were pregnant with some kind
of fire water that would soon be dropped on her. If one sat long enough in an enclosed space with Romans, the collective smell
of the urine-based stain remover used on everyone’s clothing eventually took its toll on one’s senses. Though they seemed
immune to it, and though they covered it with expensive oils and perfumes, Kleopatra’s sensitive nose easily detected it.
She knew she would have to pay a price for her exit in the middle of Cicero’s reading, but she could sit no longer. She raised
a finger in the direction of Charmion, who stood immediately. “I need air,” she said to no one in particular.

Outside, the dusk had taken on a spectral glow. The clouds’ flaming centers burned through the deep blue of the twilight sky.
It looked to Kleopatra as if something was being born, some new star in a far-off sky cracking through the vapors and entering
the universe.

“You are ill?” Charmion put her hand on Kleopatra’s forehead to check for fever as she had done since the queen was a small
child.

“Please undo my hair, Charmion. It is like a band of torture around my brain.”

“I am going to flog that chattering eunuch,” Charmion replied, removing the pins that held Kleopatra’s thick brown hair in
its tight bun at the nape of her neck. She had kept her coiffures simple in Rome, though the wealthier local women seemed
to favor as many hair ornaments as an Egyptian prostitute. Kleopatra thought they might be disappointed at her sleek elegance,
as if they expected her to wear ceremonial robes every day. She closed her eyes and let her head rest against Charmion’s belly
while Charmion rubbed her temples.

“Pardon me!”

Porcia had left the banquet and stood embarrassed before the queen. “I did not see your lady exit with you,” she said. “You
looked ill, Your Majesty, and I thought you might need assistance.”

The young woman was probably Kleopatra’s age, with light mushroom brown eyes and olive skin. Her eyebrows were dark and dramatic,
like the wings of a hawk. Kleopatra looked for signs of her father, Cato, in her face, but Cato had been an old and weathered
man when Kleopatra met him twelve years ago. Porcia was a beauty, but with a furrowed, serious brow that eliminated any appearance
of coyness about her looks. Kleopatra had heard that she was scholarly like her husband, Brutus.

“That is very kind of you, madam,” Kleopatra answered. “Please sit with me for a minute. I am glad we will have this moment
to speak, just the two of us. I wish to express my sorrow over the death of your father. When my own father was at the worst
of his troubles, the senator made an extremely generous offer to help him. My father was gratified to have been treated so
well by such a highly respected Roman of his rank.”

“It is very gracious of you to remember him, Your Majesty. Would you believe that you were also spoken of in the house of
Cato?”

“How so?” Kleopatra could only imagine what Cato had to say about her liaison with Caesar.

“When my father returned from his duties in Cyprus, he told all his children of the small princess from Egypt who spoke many
languages and acted as her father’s diplomat, though she was still a child. He used you to shame us over our lessons!”

“And were you inspired to try harder?”

“No, Your Majesty, we were inclined to give up altogether in the face of your many accomplishments. My father was a man of
impossible idealism and virtue. I don’t believe I ever pleased him.”

“Surely your marriage pleased him?”

Porcia said nothing. She looked at her feet, at Kleopatra’s feet, and then met the queen’s eyes. “I know that my father was
instrumental in the death of your uncle, the king of Cyprus.”

“The king took his life of his own volition,” Kleopatra said. “There is no need to apologize.”

“But my father’s presence in his country drove him to the act. Or that is what I have been told. I am certain this caused
great grief to his brother, your father.”

“Yes, it was the catalyst for a rebellion in our city. Our subjects were furious that my father could not help his brother.
But what could he do? Still, I remind you that the senator did offer us his assistance. We hold no grudge against him or against
his memory.” Kleopatra remembered the humiliating circumstances under which her father had met with Cato. The old man, though
forthright and seeming to want to help, had forced the king to come to his private quarters-humiliating enough- and then received
him while he sat on his toilet, plagued with dysentery. How close the king’s men had come to slaying him on the spot and putting
him out of his misery. And what misery they would have saved Caesar if they had done just that. But here was this sincere
creature apologizing for her dead father’s notoriously inflexible ways.

“That is gracious and kind, and the gods will bless you for your generosity,” Porcia said. “It unburdens me to know that there
is no animosity against my father’s soul from you or from the late king.”

“But this is the way it must be,” Kleopatra said. “There are those who would blame our host-my friend and ally and benefactor-for
the death of your father. And you seem not to hold him in dishonor.”

“Your Majesty, if Caesar were a less generous and merciful man, I would be a widow and my children fatherless. My father was
not a man to kowtow to anyone or anything, neither a regime nor a man. He knew that in committing suicide, he would deny Caesar
the pleasure of giving mercy. He took his life for his own reasons and according to his own plans. I revered him in life and
will honor his memory. But what can I say of Caesar? Despite their philosophical differences, he is like a father to my husband.”

“And your husband? He is genuinely reconciled with his spiritual father?” And if so, why is he so thick with Cicero, and why
does he lis
ten to Cicero’s insults against Caesar with a whimsical smile on his face instead of taking up a sword as a real son would
do?

“He has never lost his boyhood affection for Caesar. I have counseled him to concentrate on their common interests and history,
and not their differences.”

“How like a philosopher you are, yourself, madam,” Kleopatra said. “Would that you had spoken tonight instead of the orator.”

“No, that is far too illustrious a compliment. I have simply learned to adjust to the price of politics and war, Your Majesty,”
Porcia answered. “It is a woman’s burden to suffer the machinations and destructions of men.”

Yes, Kleopatra thought. For a woman not born a queen, for women who hold no power of their own, that is precisely their Fate.

Kleopatra peeked out the small square window of her chamber, watching as Caesar gave Calpurnia a chaste kiss before letting
the footman put her into her buggy. The two treated one another formally, more like nephew and matron aunt than husband and
wife. Kleopatra supposed the lack of collective time spent together made them little more than strangers, or perhaps polite
but distant business partners. She did not enjoy thinking of the impediments to her own happiness with Caesar. His wife. Her
brother-husband, the craven thirteen-year-old under watch in Alexandria. Roman law. They were obstacles, to be sure. But obstacles
could be removed.

The last of the carriages took off into the night, the bright torches of a bodyguard on horse lighting their way, making a
tunnel of flames through the thick darkness. Kleopatra felt momentary relief, and then remembered that her evening was hardly
over. She met Caesar in the corridor, a tiny candle burning in her hand.

“Let us gaze upon our Little Caesar,” she said. She realized that she could not rest at night until she saw that her son was
safely asleep, especially in this house where so many of Caesar’s enemies had just dined. Though no one mentioned the child-out
of deference to Calpurnia, she supposed-everyone knew that his mother had brought him to Rome, and that he carried Caesar’s
name with Caesar’s consent. Surely
they did not think she had named him Caesar out of mere respect for a political alliance. But she and Caesar had decided that
they would make no formal announcement about their son, at least until he could obtain a quick and blameless divorce. “How
about adultery?” Kleopatra had once asked him. “That seems to be a popular factor in Roman divorce.” “I already used that
one once,” he had replied, referring to his second wife, who had been caught in flagrante delicto with his friend Clodius.
“Besides, no one would believe it of Calpurnia.”