Pharaoh (28 page)

“But what are we going to do? He listens to no one.” She could see that Antony was frustrated, perhaps because he shared her
position. All that they planned depended upon Caesar. What would happen to them if he failed, either in health or in war?
The unasked question hung in the air between them.

Antony spoke in hushed urgency, bowing his head so that their faces were close. She could smell the touch of wine on him,
though he hardly seemed intoxicated. “I believe, madam, that he might listen to you. What will happen if I am in Macedonia
and you are in Alexandria and Caesar-may the gods forbid it and forgive even the utterance of these words-falls ill on his
journey? What happens if he dies? Do you know how many factions would war with one another for his power? The world would
be in turmoil.”

“And where would you stand?” she asked pointedly. “With me and my son? With Brutus and his ilk? With Lepidus and his money?”

Antony moved even closer to her so that she could feel his warm breath on her face. “I find that women’s minds are always
the quicker. You are bold, Your Majesty, and far more favored by the gods than my wife, who should be in the senate, but had
the misfortune of being born a woman.”

“I will thank you to remember that a queen is not lucky, but chosen by the gods. Fulvia is not unlucky, merely unchosen.”

“Have I insulted where I only meant a gracious compliment?” Charm fell from his smile, coating his words.

“You have not insulted, but you have also not answered my question.”

“Should anything happen to Caesar, I must contrive to be Caesar- though no man will be able to fill that singular position.
And in that contrivance, I will have to take over any
number
of his most important duties.”

When she
realized
what he meant, she stopped breathing. He took her hand, swallowing it whole in his two huge ones. His skin was hard and hot
against her cooler flesh.

“Should Caesar face either defeat or death, I will always protect both you and the prince. No matter who else I take as my
ally.”

“I am relieved to hear it, Antony, and I will take you at your word.” She withdrew her hand, for she did not know how many
bargains she was making in that caress.

“And you, Your Majesty, will you keep our alliance? Or will you skip over your friend who will be so very far away in Macedonia,
and run to the senators most anxious to call your country’s money and resources their own?”

That was an interesting question. How far would their alliance carry their dreams and ambitions without the might and genius
of Caesar to direct them? Only the gods could say, and though she silently prayed for it, Kleopatra was not receiving any
direct word of counsel from them at this moment. All she had to guide her answer was Antony’s penetrating stare, his history
as a great warrior who could control many thousands of men, his florid oratory that could twist ornery opponents to his way
of thinking, and the sense that whatever happened, he was destined to be a part of her future. When she thought of those who
might try to assume power in Caesar’s wake-Brutus, Cassius, Lepidus, Cicero-she could not imagine that she could forge any
lasting alliance with them. Though the lot of them were polite, they hated and feared both her and her son. But here was Antony
pledging his loyalty and only asking for hers in return. Whether he would make good on his promise she did not know and could
not foresee. Men made many vows that were broken with the changing tides of Lady Fortune. Perhaps Antony would try to assume
Caesar’s place in her bed only to sell her out to his Roman allies. It was a chance she would have to take until a better
option presented itself. But she believed that Caesar’s observations about Antony gave credence to her decision. If he were
so easily molded by the woman in his life, then why, at some juncture, should that woman not be herself?

“In all of Rome, Marcus Antonius, you are my only true friend and ally. I intend for you to remain as such no matter what
the future brings us.”

He took her hand again. The mischief in his eyes reawakened as if
from a hard slumber. He kissed her hand, opened her palm, and drew a line across it. “Kleopatra, I should like to exchange
blood with you as my schoolmates and I used to do when we made boyhood pacts. But I cannot send you back to Caesar dripping
in blood, now can I?”

When they returned to the banqueting room, they were met with dozens of pairs of eyes, though no one commented on their absence.
Caesar was eating a pear and drinking a cup of wine. He looked better than he had in days.

“General, was it my absence that brought back your appetite?” Antony asked, laughing, and everyone joined in.

“All of your appetites shame those of other men, my son,” Caesar replied, and everyone laughed harder, especially Fulvia,
who threw her head back so that Kleopatra could see the sculpture of her teeth.

“We were just playing a game,” Fulvia said. “We are going around the room and everyone must answer this question: What is
the most preferable kind of death?”

“What grim game is this, madam?” Kleopatra asked. “In my country, conversation at dinner, though often philosophical in nature,
takes on a livelier tone.”

“You shall see the fun in it, Your Majesty Marcus Lepidus wishes his heart to fail while deflowering a fine young virgin.
Lucius Cotta would like to fall from his favorite horse after a gallop at dawn.”

“I see. Well, for myself, I should like to live to be a very old woman, and then ascend into the heavens, flying on the swift
wings of Pegasus.”

“That is a death for a deity, Your Majesty,” Fulvia said.

“That is correct, madam,” Kleopatra retorted. “Except for the fact that the gods are immortal.”

Antony quickly interrupted the exchange between the women. “I should like to die making love to my wife, an experience unequalled
by any other, making all the rest of life seem so very tedious by comparison. That is my wish.”

He kissed Fulvia on the nose, which had the immediate effect of relaxing the crevice in her forehead and restoring a smile
to her face, while Kleopatra wondered if what he said was true. She felt an unexpected twinge of jealousy, doubting the intensity
she’d felt from him moments before when she’d been the object of his attention.

“And you, Caesar?” Fulvia asked.

Caesar hesitated not one moment. He turned his palms upward, making wings out of his arms. “The method hardly matters. The
best death, my dears, is a sudden and expedient one.”

He walked alone to the senate meeting. Calpurnia had been unwell that morning, sick with dark dreams the night before, begging
him to stay and give her solace. She held the hem of his robe as he left the house, saying that the grim skies were inauspicious
enough, that he should stay indoors until the sun broke. But he would not give his opponents another reason to criticize him,
to interpret his absence as meaning he thought himself too high and mighty now to even attend the meetings of the senate.
He would not falter. He was too close to his goal, too close to departing Rome in a state of glory with the greatest army
ever assembled. Too close to amassing as much turf for the empire as Alexander had added to his. It would be a long journey,
but when he was done, no one would be able to level criticism against him again. His supporters had dug up an old line from
the Sybilline Holy Books prophesying that only a king could defeat the Parthian menace. And so the senate had decreed that
Caesar might be called king as long as he was away from the capital. That was the first in a short line of steps ascending
to the heights he intended to reach.

Still, he was weary this morning, as if the night’s sleep had not cast its refreshing dew upon him. So odd for him to be unable
to shake the fatigue. He had not slept well in so long. Whenever he closed his eyes and drifted away, he went to a place he
did not know, and
she
was there, asking him about his plans, if he was sure that he had prepared long enough and well enough. Of course I’m sure,
he always replied, staring into her deep blue eyes until he was dizzy with her power. For she was the woman they all sought,
the woman of beauty, of strength, of life itself. All flowed from her, and here she was, visiting him every night. His lifelong
love.

He thought of Calpurnia’s foolish worries. What was a black sky when Venus herself was the eternal sunshine that hovered above
him?

He passed Antony in the alley beside the chamber, embroiled in a heated discussion with Brutus Albinus, a long-winded man.
Caesar did
not know whether to encourage Antony to remain in the conversation, keeping the dull Albinus from further sullying his own
day with one of his endless diatribes on the senate floor, or to interrupt Albinus and save Antony from the dreary duty of
listening to him. He chose the course of least resistance, waved to Antony, and moved on.

He entered the chamber, adjacent to the theater Pompey had built. The senate had demanded to meet there today, and he wondered
if this was symbolic on their part; would he have to sit through another long exhortation about restoring the Republic, during
which they would endlessly revive the memory of Pompey and all the old values for which he had stood? The Republic was as
dead as poor Pompey, and no amount of verbiage from a bunch of deluded old men would bring it back. Not in their lifetimes,
nor in Caesar’s lifetime. Yet there was Pompey’s statue, tall and stately like the man himself, rising from its pedestal as
if to greet him. Caesar raised his right hand at his old friend, remembering happier times when he and Pompey each held the
hand of Julia and wished for eternal happiness and alliance.

The senators stood upon his entrance, immediately surrounding him and wasting no time in issuing their petitions. Tillius
Cimber, whose brother was in exile, thrust into Caesar’s hand a request for his return, accompanied by a verbal argument reminding
Caesar of his own renowned mercy. The others were gathered around him, too, shouting their demands so that Cimber was drowned
out.

“Gentlemen, please!” he shouted, annoyed. Their voices rang in his ears; it was intolerable. He clutched his head. “Not today.”
He wanted nothing more than for them to go away. He felt light in the head, and he did not know if he was succumbing to a
spell or whether he had simply forgotten to take his breakfast, what with his urgency to get away from Calpurnia’s histrionics.

Cimber retracted his arm and put the proposal in his pocket. He stared at Caesar, and then with great determination pulled
his toga down away from his neck. Caesar wondered if Cimber was going to resign his position in protest against his brother’s
exile. He had little patience at that moment for such dramatics, and he hoped Cimber was not going to start something.

Silence fell upon the senate-a merciful silence as far as Caesar was concerned. One of the Casca brothers, Publius Longinus,
approached
him, and Caesar hoped it was not another petition, for Casca was nervous and sweaty and reaching into his
umbro,
probably fumbling for the piece of paper that declared his demand. Caesar put his hand up to stop him before he could speak.
But Casca’s trembling, freckled hand produced a glinting thing, which Caesar could not quite see, and thrust it into Caesar’s
neck. He felt the pain-agonizingly sharp, like the worst wound he had ever taken in battle-and he saw the blood spurt from
his neck. He put up one hand to defend himself from another blow, and with the other grabbed Casca’s dagger, wet with his
own blood. He looked into his assailant’s frantic eyes. Twisting his arm as hard as he could, he demanded, “What evil is this?”

Despite the pain and the blood, he realized he was not badly hurt, and he looked past Casca into the room to see who would
first apprehend this madman. Every face looked on in horror, but no one moved to help him.

“Brother, help!” Casca called out, and suddenly Caesar saw a host of daggers fly at him. He took a knife in the leg, another
in the gut, several from behind, stabbing his back and making him throw himself forward into another blow. He turned away
from each one only to meet another. He was nothing now but an animal hunted, with no odds in his favor. He took a blow from
Cassius, who stabbed him with a cold, determined, slit-eyed look. Caesar took Cassius by the hair and pulled his head toward
him, biting his ear until he had a piece of it in his mouth. He spat it out, elbowing someone behind him who had just thrust
another dagger into his back. He fought like a wild beast, looking everywhere for Antony, but not finding him. The face he
saw instead, not inches from his own, was that of Brutus, who grabbed him by his robes and held him close. Was Brutus going
to save him? Caesar looked straight into the tense eyes and saw his own death. “You, too, my child?” he asked him in Greek,
the language in which they communicated. Brutus’s face was full of terror, his bushy eyebrows wild like weeds, his mouth skewed
into a contorted gaping hole. Caesar saw Brutus’s confusion and smiled at him, which seemed to set the man on a deadly course,
as if the father had mocked the threat of the son. Brutus let out a little cry, and Caesar felt the deepest cut of all in
his belly.