Pharaoh (22 page)

“And that is why you shall prevail against them.”

He kissed her softly. “You will not see me again until I return.”

She was about to protest when she sensed a presence in the room. Caesar’s secretary stood patiently. “Sir? The hour of the
next meeting has arrived.”

Caesar walked back with her to the entrance of the temple, where a committee of men awaited him, and Hammonius, her. He took
her hand and bowed formally. “Your Majesty, it has been a pleasure discussing matters of state and religion with you.”

“And with you, General,” she said, giving him her finest regal smile, though the pain in her chest cut like a knife when she
tried to take a breath. She said a silent prayer for Venus’s infallibility. “Until we meet again.”

She turned her eyes away from him before she gave in to more tears. That would not do before this assembly She searched the
crowd for Hammonius, who quickly took her arm, his fine Greek bodyguard falling in line behind them. He led her into the Forum,
where she noticed nothing but a long stretch of umbrella pines, their strange inverted branches opening to the sky as if in
fervent prayer.

D
awn threatens. The light creeps into the windows of her chamber, disturbing the perfect peace of darkness. Iras twitches his
nose in his sleep as if the break of day disgruntles him even in his dreams. From the window facing the sea, over the treetops
of the Royal Gardens, the queen sees the still-tranquil harbors and the causeway jutting out like a silvery finger, pointing
the way to the Isle of the Pharos. On the island, the eternal flame of the tower lights the sea, its fire meeting the first
rays of the sun in celebration of the day. Down the coast, Antony lies in the arms of a militia of whores.

Charmion enters, the thin lines around her mouth drawn deeper from lack of sleep. A servant trails her with a cup of steaming
infusion of Indian spices on a tray. Following the authority of Charmions pointed finger, the girl places it on the window
ledge next to the queen. Having delivered the beverage, she hops back as if she fears being bitten. She is a new girl, one
the queen has either not seen or not noticed. Unusual. Charmion allows no strange servants into her private chamber. “The
girl was in the Imperator’s retreat,” Charmion says grimly. “I sent her.” The girl steals a glimpse of the queen’s face but
quickly lowers her big cow-eyes, wondering if Charmion will punish the insubordination. The queen holds the tea to her face,
letting the steam rise to plump her skin and refresh her. The girl is small, perhaps fourteen, of mixed Greek descent. Her
simple white chiton is open on the right side in the manner of the Laconian maidens. Through the gap, the queen sees her right
leg shake ever so slightly.

“Look at me, child,” she says. The girl obeys, surprised at the friendliness in the queen’s voice. The queen captures and
holds her eyes, startled by the fineness of the child’s features. Despite the mingling of foreign bloods her face is gifted
with the outline of the Greek ideal. Kleopatra makes a mental note to speak to Charmion about her. Beautiful, guileless. She
wonders if her son Caesarion has had her. More likely Antyllus. Like his father, he is given to seducing shy but willing creatures,
while Caesarion, though king, requires being seduced.

“What did you see, child?”

“I saw nothing, Your Royal Grace Mother Egypt,” she replies, looking to Charmion.

“I sent her to listen at the door. The servants are quite unreliable and do not speak the languages of the Imperator,” Charmion
wearily commands. “The child is facile with many tongues. Her father is a learned Jew, but her mother an outcast. Tell Your
Majesty what you heard.”

The child’s eyelashes flutter up and down like little insect wings. Tears well in the corner of her eyes. “Singing, Your Royal
Grace Mother Egypt,” she answers with great hesitation.

“Singing?”

“Yes, Your Grace. The Im-Imperator was teaching the ladies songs.”

“Songs?”

“Songs,Your Royal Grace. Songs like riddles. In the Latin tongue. B-b-bad songs. Coarse songs like soldiers sing. About coupling
with beasts. Songs of that nature.”

The queen exercises extreme discipline in refraining from laughter. Imitating the stern Charmion, she asks, “At what hour
was this? Surely they have finished singing their tunes by now.”

“Less than an hour ago,” Charmion says. “As the child was leaving, she heard the Imperator call out for more wine.”

More wine, after drinking and fucking for twelve hours? The queen had hoped that her husband’s melancholia would have been
slightly more difficult to dissipate.

“More wine, and a roast pig, Your Royal Grace.” The girl is beginning to lose her shyness and looks directly at her queen.
“The Imperator demanded a roast pig with prune sauce, a pheasant fixed his special way-”

“Yes, yes, baked slowly and braised with grapes and wines. Go on.”

“And a goose with sweets, Mother Egypt. Yes, he said a goose with sweets. And, and, and-“Suddenly the child falls to her knees
as if stricken by Caesar’s malady, hiding her face in her hands as if consumed by either disease or a paralyzing shame. Her
back heaves up and down beneath the folds of the thin cotton dress.

“Spit it out, child.” Charmion is losing patience. “Control yourself and tell the queen what the Imperator demanded.”

The child raises her face to meet the queen. “And three naked serving girls to carve,” she sputters quickly, lowering her
eyes once more. “Your Royal Grace Mother Egypt,” she adds, gasping an intake of breath.

Unable to restrain herself, the queen bursts into laughter. Charmion remains unyielding, suffering with resigned ennui Antony’s
antics. The child, however, collapses and weeps again on the floor at their feet, a suppliant awaiting punishment for carrying
the news of the queen’s husband’s audacity.

“What else did you hear?” the queen demands of her, signaling to Charmion to lift her up. “Do you know the sounds of lovemaking?
Did you hear such things?”

Charmion grabs a handful of the black ringlets and yanks them back, revealing the tear-stained face. “Only singing, Your Royal
Grace Mother Egypt. Only song. Forgive me. I believe I would know the sounds of lovemaking, but I heard none. Only the singing
and the command for the foods and servants.”

The queen looks at the lady-in-waiting in disapproval. Sighing, Charmion releases the girl’s hair, takes her elbow, and raises
her to her feet. She smoothes the loosened curls and almost tenderly straightens the child’s garments, looking back at the
queen as if to say, “is this better?”

“You shall be rewarded for your excellent service. I need clever girls who speak languages and are loyal. You shall be called
upon again. You may go.”

The child looks to Charmion for confirmation of the order, as if Charmion is queen and Kleopatra the lady-in-waiting. Charmion
nods her head at the door and the child walks quickly toward the exit.

At the thud of the heavy door closing behind her, Iras turns on his back and snores, but does not awaken. The hot, sweet concoction
slides down the queen’s throat, filling the emptiness inside, hurting as it makes its way into her stomach.

“Does she know not to speak of this?” she asks. She likes the girl and wishes her no harm. She also recognizes that the child
might continue to prove useful.

“She is fully briefed, Lady,” Charmion says monotonously, though with the solicitousness she never abandons. They sit in silence,
the queen sipping tea, Charmion staring disdainfully at the sleeping form of Iras.

Charmion says, “The early shift heard the sounds of lovemaking.”

“Then we are successful,” the queen replies cheerily. “The first battle is won. Can victory be far off?” She cringes at the
hollowness of her own voice.

“Do you wish to meet with Sidonia this morning after she is finished?”

“I wish for nothing less,” she snaps at the good woman who lives for her alone.

“I see.”

She thinks, Once it was I who feasted with Antony into the morning hours. Once it was I to whom he made love between courses
of pig and pheasant and goose and wine. Once it was I with whom he laughed and sang the prurient songs of war late into the
night. And once, not so long ago, it was I who made Antony forget food entirely for days at a time, while he obliterated in
me all thoughts of duty, family, and country. Once. But no more.

Masking those anxieties she says, “It is entirely possible, Charmion, that my plan has reversed itself on me, that Fate in
her fickleness has delivered an unexpected outcome. This is what I get for meddling with the gods: Antony is sinking farther
into the debauches of wine and women. Watch: He will find the pleasures so intoxicating, so reassuring to his failed manhood,
that he’ll never want to fight a war again. Why should he?”

“Yes, Kleopatra, it is entirely possible.” Charmion is terse; her lack of faith in Antony is well-known. “You might do what
we discussed,” she adds with hope in her voice.

The queen knows that Charmion believes that she must negotiate with the enemy. The enemy of her husband. The rival of her
own son. The monster Caesar hand-delivered to the world.

“I am not prepared to play the suppliant to the monster.”

“The Lady of the Two Lands, Mother Egypt, the Queen descended of Many Kings, need never supplicate,” Charmion retorts. “She
need only reveal her will. The kingdom of your fathers has prospered by alliance with Rome. And who is Rome now?”

Kleopatra can hear Charmion answer her own question: Not the man who sings and dances drunk in the mansion by the sea. Not
the lascivious man-boy who amuses himself with naked serving girls while his enemy approaches from Greece. Not the man you
chose. Not the man you chose this time.

“It is not my will to align with the Typhon,“Kleopatra growls. Charmion is the only person who might suggest such a plan to
the queen and retain her head. Kleopatra does not suspect Charmion, but wonders if she is acting on her own intelligence or
if she has been approached by others. She is sure that forsaking Antony is not a novel idea in the kingdom. “I believe I make
myself clear”

Charmion asks no further questions, but returns to the business of adminis-trating the queen’s day. “The War Minister requests
a meeting prior to breakfast with the Cabinet.”

“The queen is currently indisposed with regard to the War Minister. I cannot listen again to his mad raving plans for escape
through the east,” she replies, grateful to be relieved of the discussion of the practical logic of betraying her husband.
Sometimes the plan makes too much sense to her. “Does he expect the Royal Family and the Imperator to simply disappear into
India? If he persists in attempting to sell me this plan I shall have him exiled.

“Cancel breakfast with the Cabinet. Send Sidonia to bed-to her own bed. And leave me alone.”

“What work shall you do, Lady?”

The queen thinks, Charmion is hopeful yet that I shall write to the monster. She believes I am being secretive in my negotiations.
From my chamber, she will exit the Inner Palace and go directly to the temple of Isis, where she shall offer a small sacrifice
and pray to the goddess for me to desert my husband.

“We shall discuss it at the appropriate time.”

“As you wish. Shall I remove the Royal Hairdresser?”

“I should think so. The queen requires a catnap.”

Charmion opens the door to the antechamber. A tall Ethiopian slave enters,

bowing to the queen. Turning to the bed, he picks up the sleeping eunuch, barely

disturbing his slumber. Iras smiles with half-cloaked dreamy eyes at the queen,

leaning his head against the hard, bare black chest. Curled up like a child in his

father’s arms, he is carried out of her chamber and into further revelry.

The queen’s maidens enter, gathering up the rumpled bed linens like mice scurrying to collect a prize hunk of cheese. They
replace the sheets with smooth, clean ones, remove her dressing gown, and place a fresh one over her head. She lies on her
bed, big enough to sleep the War Cabinet, and a girl kneels on either side of her, massaging oil into each arm and hand. She
is particular in the care of her hands. The shutters are sealed and the room dark once more. One small lamp is lit; through
sleepy eyes, the queen watches Charmion in silhouette speak to the slave who carries the laundry in a basket on her head.
The slave listens intently and curtsies obediently to the older Greek woman. The basket moves not. The queen’s eyes grow heavy,
and within moments, safe in the knowledge that the old sergeant carries her orders to the troops, she falls asleep.

She is still listening to the authoritative calm of Charmion’s voice, to the soft patter of slaves’feet, to the whisper of
the servant who extinguishes the candle with her breath, when the ghosts of the past arise and take hold of her dreams.

To: Kleopatra VII, Queen of Egypt in the city of Rome
From: Hephaestion, Prime Minister of Egypt in the city of Alexandria
To Her Majesty the Queen,

Recent events require your immediate return to Alexandria. Our sources have uncovered evidence of a worldwide conspiracy directed
against yourself and the prince. I no longer trust the privacy of our correspondence, so I will reveal no further details
until we are face-to-face. One of Hammonius’s ships is leaving Ostia in two days. It is a luxury vessel, I am assured, and
fit for you and the prince and whatever members of your party you wish to accompany you. Take no security risks. Employ all
methods used from your time in exile when conditions were also uncertain. Above all, trust no one but your closest aides.
Make certain that Charmion is always in attendance with the prince. It is my burden to have to alarm you, but it is also my
duty. The urgent situation calls for your presence, as dynastic succession is at stake. Do not alert the Romans that there
is trouble in Alexandria. Information was leaked to Caesars legions here in the city, but I have personally seen to it that
has been countermanded. I believe we are safe now in that regard. The excuse you must give for your hasty departure is the
illness of your brother, the king. We believe he has been infected with the plague and the urgency of his condition requires
your immediate return to Egypt.

Forgive my familiarity in expressing this sentiment, but I am looking forward to being in the Royal Presence once more. We
have been through many trials
together, and recent events suggest that our challenges are not yet over. Please do not delay your return.

Eternally your servant, Hephaestion

The last time she had entered her city’s harbor she was wrapped stiff and suffocating into a musty carpet slung over the shoulder
of a pirate, mentally practicing what she would say to the dictator of Rome to encourage him to support her over her now-dead
brother. Whenever she became gloomy, thinking of the mountains that were yet to be climbed before she and her son and the
kingdom of their mothers and fathers would be secure, she made it a point to think about how far she had come. Julius Caesar’s
only son was the prince of Egypt. A statue of her likeness was standing in a Roman temple, where the citizens would learn
to associate her with the Mother Goddess, just as they did in her country. Egypt was still an independent nation. And these
things she had accomplished on her own with the help of the gods.

The unobstructed sun warmed her face against the sharp bite of the ocean breeze. The sky was the pure azure blue she had not
seen in so many months, spotted with benevolent clouds that sailed along with the ship, whirling tufts of snowy white dancing
for her as her ship clipped into the Great Harbor. She put aside the apprehension raised by Hephaestion’s cryptic letter and
watched the sky-goddess’s performance, the clouds her little round daughters bouncing merrily for the queen’s pleasure. Why
would Hephaestion have called the queen and prince back to a palace infested with plague? She did not question him but packed
a few trunks, made hasty apologies to the Romans Caesar had charged with keeping her care and company in his absence, and
departed with an alacrity that left them guessing. After all, too many members of her family had learned too late that an
absent monarch soon became a deposed monarch. But word of her departure had spread about Rome even before she was gone. Cicero
had sent a messenger to the dock with a long list of books he would like to borrow from the Alexandria Library upon her return.

The bright lining in the dark cloud of Hephaestion’s letter was that she was able to send a curt note to Servilia canceling
that woman’s trip to
the villa planned for the following week; duty demanded her immediate presence in her own capital. Whatever the crisis at
home, she thought, she would at least be spared another encounter with that noxious woman. But Servilia did not respect Kleopatra’s
wishes. Instead, she sent word that the meeting must not be postponed. She would arrive the very next day.

Caesar was not two days out of Rome and Kleopatra was one day from departure when Servilia appeared at the villa. When that
lady had announced her intentions to visit, Kleopatra had extended the invitation to her daughters as well, but Servilia arrived
alone, allowing that the young Roman matrons were far too busy with their children and their household duties to make visits
to the country. Kleopatra wondered if Servilia was insinuating that her regal lifestyle was too indulgent-a favorite criticism
the Romans used against others who did not share their fanatical, though superficial, devotion to Stoicism.

“Whereas a mature woman like me has already reared my flock, and an active social life is my reward,” Servilia said.

“You are alone?” Kleopatra asked. “I was under the assumption that Roman women must always be under the protection of one
man or another.”

“Or they under our protection, as the case may be.” Servilia’s oddly shaped eyes smiled along with her mouth. They were flat
at the bottom and highly rounded on top, like the shape of the Alban Hills where Pompey had once lived.

Servilia said she had felt it her duty to tell Kleopatra the terrible things Caesar’s enemies were saying behind his back:
He is destroying the Republic. He wants to be
a god.
He wants to be a
king.
He wants to move the capital of Rome to
Alexandria.

Kleopatra did not know if Servilia was jealous of her, trying to warn her, or simply seeking to destroy her union with Caesar
for political purposes, working as her son’s agent. In any event, she did not believe the woman was to be trusted.

“And what do his
friends
say of him, madam?” Kleopatra asked. “Would you have any way of knowing those details? For example, what does your son say
about him?”

“Brutus and Caesar have ideological differences, that is all. From the time Brutus was a baby, his father filled his head
with stories of how their ancestors rose up against Rome’s tyrants. He was trying to instill
Republican ideals in him. He succeeded in the extreme, I’m afraid. I wish my son were not so literal. But I don’t worry too
much over it. There is a kindred feeling between Brutus and Caesar that is as deep as the familial, I can assure you.”

“That must be a great comfort to Caesar,” Kleopatra replied. What was Servilia’s game?

“Your Majesty, the people of your country worship you as a goddess, is that not correct?”

“They believe that Pharaoh is their link to the gods, the gods’ representative on earth. It is a tradition many thousands
of years in practice.”

“There are those who say you are whispering these thoughts into Caesar’s ear! Thoughts that he should enjoy deification, too.”

“I thought you knew Caesar well,” Kleopatra answered.

“As well as anyone has ever known him, I assure you. Our friendship has survived every challenge,” she said, drawing out each
syllable of the word “every.”

Until now,
Kleopatra thought. “If that were true, you would know that first and foremost, Caesar is a Roman. His interests are Rome’s
highest interests, not his own. And secondly, he does not require a woman’s whisper to put ideas in his head.”

“We who know him well are aware of that fact. But I thought that Your Majesty would want to know what rumors were being put
about. If we believe the philosophers, we must agree that knowledge is a form of power.”

“Indeed. But who is instigating these rumors?”

“Many, I’m afraid. And your own sister had a hand in it.”

“My sister? Since when does a political prisoner have the ear of the city’s dignitaries?”

“Your sister had audience with a small group of Roman women who pride themselves in administering to prisoners. You know the
kind of do-gooders I mean?” Servilia waved her hand to show her disapproval of such types. “Women who waste our natural female
sympathies on the undeserving, when they should be at home minding the affairs of the family.”

“Why would anyone listen to her? My sister is an enemy of Rome. She would not stop fighting her war just because she was defeated
and in chains, I assure you.”

“And she did not! She fueled the rumors of Caesar’s outlandish ambitions with stories of how you and he plan to disband Rome’s
government and set up a joint kingdom somewhere in the east-Babylon, Alexandria, Antioch, Troy, take your pick.”

Servilia waited for Kleopatra’s reaction like a cat eyeing a cornered mouse.

“Did you say as much to Caesar?” Why was she taking the trouble to enlighten Kleopatra? What dark purpose hid behind that
smooth, high brow? Why did she not take her information directly to the source?

“Yes, but you know how he is. He waved his long arm at me, leveling my fears into idle gossip that should be ignored.”

“And my sister was believed?” Kleopatra asked incredulously, or projecting as much incredulity as she could muster. She wondered
if Servilia knew how close she was to guessing the truth-the truth, but without the sinister undertones of vanquishing Rome’s
government to achieve their ambitions.

“Oh yes, because they wanted to believe her. Caesar has the great love of the masses, but some extremely powerful people fear
him-and fear exactly the fruition of what the princess said.”

“But surely you understand that these are the ravings of an hysterical and embittered girl?”

“Of course. But she was able to do some damage before she was removed from the city.” Servilia clutched the arms of her chair
as if she were about to stand, but she did not get up. Her square white fingernails turned purple with the pressure. “Your
Majesty, may I break with all protocol and be utterly candid with you?”

“As you wish,” Kleopatra said, stiffening, fearing the charge of this dauntless older woman.

“You may think that I wish to regain my-what shall we say?-former position in Caesar’s life, but I can assure you that nothing
is farther from the truth. I would have surmised the same thing when I was a young woman. But you cannot imagine the freedom
that a woman gains at this stage of life without those sorts of concerns. What I am trying to tell you is that I have loved
Caesar for more than thirty years, and my love for him is very far beyond wishing to be the object of his desire. We are old,
old friends. He and I have always envisioned being very elderly together, unable to walk any longer without assistance; we
would sit
in our chairs and watch the young take over our duties while we had nothing to do but sip wine and smell pretty flowers. I
do not mind that you are one of those vital young people who has already taken my place in the most enduring relationship
of my life. You are welcome to that position. I am taking you into my confidence because I wish to grow old with Caesar in
the manner in which I have described. If he is not careful-which he disdains to be-our pretty vision may not happen.”

Kleopatra scoffed to herself at the notion of Servilia sharing Caesar’s dotage. One woman would have that honor, and it would
not be an old Roman crone but a formidable young queen.

“What are the objections of his enemies? You must help me. I do not quite understand the animosity against a man who has brought
so much greatness to his country.” Kleopatra waited for Servilia to answer. She was sure that Brutus was no friend-no son-of
Caesar, and she wondered if the mother was ready to confess that knowledge. For if something was afoot in this woman’s family,
she surely had knowledge of it. Kleopatra doubted that a single olive could disappear from Servilia’s kitchen without her
having foreknowledge of the thievery.

“Your Majesty, it may be hard for a monarch to apprehend our ways, but the concentration of power in the person of Caesar
is against our very constitution. That is my son’s objection to the dictatorship. As for the rest of them, what has raised
hackles is that Caesar is giving Rome away to those who are not Roman. He has been granting Roman citizenship to all free
men of Italy, giving them the same rights and privileges as
true
Romans. He has appointed Gauls to the very senate, and he removed Roman officials of very noble blood from their positions
in the provinces and replaced them with locals.”

Crooks!
Caesar had called the Romans he stripped of power and sent home.
Crooks, ingrates, inept thieves!
But the queen did not
repeat
this to Servilia, who was undoubtedly
related
to some of them.

“Lately,
he has said in public that his goal is to give Roman rights to each and every free man in the empire! I must tell you that
this idea- along with these strange Gallic creatures attending senate meetings in
breeches
-has completely infuriated his conservative critics, who believe we must keep Rome
pure.
Surely you see the wisdom in that?”

“The Gallic senators were his loyal allies in the war there, I believe,” Kleopatra said. “Why should they not be rewarded?
And if Gaul is now
Rome, then why should Gauls not be Romans? Romans do not have to become Gallic.”