Pharaoh (24 page)

“Here is another you will find of particular interest. After the can-dlemaker turned in his servant, we began to intercept
the correspondence of the Roman soldiers. This is a letter from a Roman officer offering on behalf of a ’high-ranking Egyptian
official one thousand talents for the assassin who is able to dispense with Kleopatra of Egypt and her son, residing in the
city of Rome while she conspires for its destruction.’

“I have no way of gauging what their chances of success may have been had we not uncovered their plots.”

“What ordinary man would not risk all for a chance at one thousand talents?” Kleopatra said. “That is more than sits in the
treasury of most city governments. But which one is to blame here? Is my brother merely Arsinoe’s puppet? Or does he have
a mind of his own?”

“He is the age his older brother was when he raised an army against you.”

Kleopatra picked up the letter again. It was chilling to read the call for one’s own death. She put the letter down and sat
back exhausted and numb, as if perhaps she were in fact dead and this bizarre meeting was a dream she was having about the
living.

“Your Royal Grace, do you remember the advice I gave you so long ago after your father died and we had to take drastic measures
to secure your position?”

“You said: In matters of state, let your blood run cold. I have never forgotten it.”

“Have you found it wise advice?”

“More wise than I would like it to be.”

Hephaestion knelt before Kleopatra, his face as still as a death mask. “I beg your forgiveness for what I have done in your
absence.”

“Prime Minister, please get up. I am far too tired for these kinds of dramatics. This is so very unlike you.”

“Egypt cannot tolerate another war of Ptolemy against Ptolemy.”

“My alliance with Rome was intended to prevent that possibility.”

“But as we have now seen, nothing will stop Arsinoe from trying to usurp. And the king is her finest local instrument.”

“But you say he is ill?”

“He is ill because I have caused it. The alchemist who makes youth potions for my mother confided to me that he had discovered
a poison that could produce the same effects as the plague. I had been praying to the gods for a way to quietly dispose of
the king, and then this! I took it as a sign. There was plague in the city and a warning had already been issued. I knew that
no one would be suspected if the king took ill. And so I have had him fed the substance in his food. I can have it stopped
if you wish, though I strongly advise against it.”

“But what of my sister? She is the true instigator.”

“At your command, I will arrange to deliver the same goods to the princess Arsinoe,” he said. “She is not the only one with
connections in Ephesus.”

C
aesar had trouble remembering if he had just won his three hundred fourth or three hundred fifth victory. His mind, so fine
for detail, was growing ever more fuzzy. In Spain, though he had subdued Pompey’s sons and their legions, he frequently forgot
precisely against whom he was fighting. He just continued to fight, commanding his men without overreliance on the intellect.
It was one’s instincts that served one well in battle. But the battles-blood splattering the faces of his men; loose limbs
dangling so pathetically from the bodies of the unfortunate; futile cries of pain, even more futile prayers to the gods yelped
with one’s last breath; gorgeous horses who had served so valiantly falling over their own legs and trampling the object of
their loyalty- these scenarios were indistinguishable from any other battles he had ever fought.

There was one difference in Spain.
She
had come to him in the midst of battle and told him to relax his sword and follow her away from the ruckus. He felt the noise
around him disappear as if he had gone completely deaf. He saw men’s mouths agape in fury, in pain, but he heard nothing.
Suddenly, the world had all the hush of an early morning snow in the Alpine mountains. He followed the unearthly presence
through the silent tableau of battle and back toward camp. She looked so beautiful, her skin dewy, her cheeks pink, her blue
eyes gleaming. Her body was draped in the thinnest weave of fabric, luminous in the late after
noon sun that rushed through newly sprouted leaves of thick-trunk trees, lighting her body through the dress. She was Spring
itself, he thought, and as she looked back at him urging him to follow her form-the quintessential woman’s body with its soft
curves and high formidable breasts and long bare feet with sloping arches that he would like to tickle-he did not know if
she was leading him away from battle because he had died or because she wished to seduce him. In the act of dismounting his
hot, perspiring horse, he reached for her waist, and she evaporated like smoke as he tried to encircle her. The next thing
he knew, he was in his tent, and a doctor with a face like a curious crab was squinting down at him, informing him that one
of his men had found him fallen from his horse, unconscious.

Why had she not simply taken him at that moment? He would happily have left his body in the forest and disappeared in her
arms.

He recovered, as he always did, remaining in Spain to clean up the inevitable mess of a provincial government changing hands.
He settled all court cases, punished war criminals, forgave the remorseful, set up a new tax system, sifted through bribes
to make all the proper appointments, collected the expected tribute, and now was on his way home.

He had done it again, pulled off yet another victory, and by now, so many senators had joined his cause-oh, out of fear, he
realized, but still it was nice to see one’s foes diminish in number. A large party of them had taken the trouble to meet
him in the coastal city of Narbo to heap yet more honors upon him, as if waiting for him to reenter Rome would have been an
insult. They named him Dictator for Life, giving him the power to appoint consuls, censors, tribunes. He was also supreme
lord over the empire’s finances and would henceforth appoint all its governors and highest provincial officers. It was declared
that forevermore, Caesar would sit in a gilded chair whenever he received officials. What was next? he wondered. Were they-despite
all the talk about preserving the old Republic-actually going to ask him to be king? Oh, that would kill Cicero, wouldn’t
it? And what posthumous suffering it would cause the soul of Cato, who would never rest for all eternity should Caesar wear
a crown in the city.

But they did not mention naming him king, at least not yet. Caesar’s guess was that this greeting party wished to secure their
positions in his government-and secure their share of the loot from Spain-before the other senators and knights took their
shares. He was not surprised
to see Gaius Trebonius, whom he should have had executed for his execrable show as governor of Farther Gaul. Trebonius was
not the only man who showed up to save his head. Indeed, as they stood in the sand, Caesar looked at the tops of many a suppliant
head that had once conspired to do him wrong.

But here was Marcus Antonius, too, who had made the journey in a chariot, of all vehicles, and who leapt from it like an Olympic
athlete and turned on every bit of his considerable charm when he saw Caesar’s carriage. Antony looked so humble, his head
lowered so that he smiled with his eyes. Then he walked toward Caesar, making a speech about Caesar’s many accomplishments,
his big arms swinging as he articulated each syllable as he was wont to do in his flashy Greek style of oratory. Everything
about Antony was gleaming on this auspiciously sunny day-eyes, teeth, words, skin. Even the air about him seemed to sizzle
with a barely visible shimmer of energy. Caesar was unsure if he was about to slip into another spell, and when the two men
were just a few feet apart, he virtually fell into Antony’s arms, which everyone took as a sign of reconciliation, particularly
Antony, who hugged Caesar so tightly that he worried he would collapse his lungs.

“Praise the gods, Caesar, I am your son again,” Antony whispered in his ear. And Caesar was comforted by that sentiment, because
he knew that when he returned to Rome he would need all the filial affection from men of power that he could muster. There
would be fewer friendly faces in Rome than here at Narbo, and Antony was the man to help meet those who groused over Caesar’s
extraordinary new powers. Antony was just the sort of son a dictator required, a son whose courage and golden words could
turn the most cowardly soldiers into brave hearts ready to face the grimmest tasks.

“The senate has taken an oath to protect you, Caesar,” Antony announced. “For all know that your health and wellness are the
very anima of the empire. Even those who once called themselves your enemies are now sworn to give daily thanks to the gods
for your very existence.”

Caesar invited Antony to ride back with him in his carriage, which forced his nephew Octavian to ride in a second coach. He
thought he saw the boy wince, but surely he understood that Antony’s seniority entitled him to enter Rome side by side with
the dictator. The sulking pride was the characteristic that worried him about his nephew-that
and his rather frail health, but that was no matter, because Caesar himself had proven that one might be thin and pale in
youth and yet grow into a man of power. Had he not bemoaned to his friends at the age of thirty that he had done so very little
with his life, whereas Alexander by that age had conquered much of the world? The boy was merely a late bloomer like himself
He attributed the sulking to his age, sixteen, when a boy so desperately wished to be a man, and was either enthralled or
intimidated by those like Antony who embodied male strength. He thought thrall a little healthier than the jealousy he saw
flash across Octavian’s face. The boy had yet to fight a battle and yet Caesar had heaped all sorts of honors upon him. Now
Caesar was sending him directly back to school in Apollonia where he might learn a thing or two. In the meantime, what more
did he want?

After so many years of being without an heir, suddenly he was rich in sons. Antony, Brutus, Octavian. But they were sons with
agendas and ulterior motives. And yet the son of his blood, the little blue-eyed boy, he could not recognize because of Rome’s
laws. Perhaps he would change all that if he had the time. If the gods wished it. He was a little tired of pushing the gods
to his favor. He felt that after all he had done, they should grant him ease. He was ready for some personal reward. In Spain
he had thought he had been given some of that in the favors of Queen Eunoe, the lusty wife of the Mauretanian king who had
so helped him with his Spanish operations. But she was like so many other lovers-eager to betray her aging husband with another
older man who was more powerful and whose patronage she sought. Caesar thought he could hear her mental machinery churning
away while he was on top of her. Human beings were so entirely predictable. Only one had the ability to surprise him still
in ways that pleased. He hoped his messengers did not delay in getting his letter to Kleopatra. He did not want to reenter
Rome without knowing that hers was one of the first faces he would see.