Pharaoh (33 page)

She lay now on her chaise of golden fabric like the goddess in repose. Her body was draped in folds of white linen woven with
tiny shimmering metallic threads. Her hair was simple, pulled into a knot at the neck as the goddess was always depicted,
with curls escaping at the temples, framing her face. She wore a giant amethyst upon her ring finger, the stone of the god
Dionysus. On her right hand she wore her mother’s ring, the ring of the Bacchant depicting the god in revelry-the same revelry
in which she and the New Dionysus would soon engage. About her neck hung a long strand of pearls the size of marbles. Iras
had pinned smaller white and black pearls into her hair in straight rows that clustered in a net, keeping tight her coiffure.
Her appearance was paramount, for not only was she meeting a man who was as susceptible as any on earth to the charms of a
woman’s beauty, but the insecurity left by Archimedes’ refusal to rejoin her as a lover stabbed at her like a secret wound.

Was she no longer desirable? She did not think that was the case when she examined herself in the mirror. She was as fit as
she had been before she gave birth to Little Caesar. In the last months, her appetite had come back, and she had regained
her womanliness. Now it had merely ripened into an elegant sensuality. Despite the responsibilities that kept her up late
into the night and awoke her before the sun every morning, her face was unlined. When she regarded herself now, she no longer
saw the shining enthusiasm of her youth, but an expression well-defined by wisdom and experience. Iras had raved over her
appearance as he helped her dress, but she took little comfort in the praise of a eunuch whose tastes were exclusively directed
toward those of his own
sex. She knew that as a queen she must not rely upon the opinion of others but rest in the knowledge of her own charms and
abilities. Ah well, all that would be tested now.

The sun was beginning to sink into the river’s mossy waters when the captain informed her that they were not half an hour
away from the port. She had sent messengers ahead to spread the word through Tarsus-and eventually, of course, to Antony himself-that
Aphrodite had come to mingle with Dionysus for the good of all of Asia, and apparently, the message had been heard. Townspeople
were running down the banks, pointing to the spectacular vision of the queen of Egypt afloat on the river Cydnus, looking
for all the world like the goddess of love. Her attending women were draped in glorious white and stationed at the rudders
and oars as if the Graces themselves were piloting the vessel. Below, the real work was done, but Kleopatra had wanted it
to appear that her barge was powered solely by Divine Energy. From giant smoldering vats, the sweet scent of jasmine perfumed
the river’s air, as if the barge floated in a heavenly effluvium.

The late afternoon light was lazy enough to warrant illuminating the lamps. One by one, the women dipped their torches into
the fire, lighting up the geometric festival of circles and squares that Kleopatra had designed. In the center of the design
was something that should please Antony-the Nemean lion, the symbol of his astrological birth sign and the symbol of Herakles,
the god he claimed as his direct ancestor. Kleopatra could hear the chatter of the people as the lights were lit. She was
certain that never had they seen such a lavish sight, and she hoped that word would spread to the Imperator hastily, while
the lights were at the height of their fire and she was at the height of her appearance. Her makeup was impeccable, her dress
without wrinkles, her breath sweet, her hair undisturbed by the breeze. Her women were still fresh and lovely. She wished
that she knew of a god of timing, for that was the deity to whom she should direct her prayers at this moment. Instead, she
closed her eyes and spoke silently and swiftly to Isis, the goddess to whom Fate bowed.

She opened her eyes as the crew was dropping anchor at Tarsus. A large crowd had gathered about the docks. By their dress,
she recognized both Syrians and Romans of all classes, some bedecked in the robes of government, others in workers’ tunics.
It seemed that rich and poor alike
had come to see her arrival. She saw the uniforms of Roman soldiers, the lavish robes of wealthy merchants, the bright linen
dresses of Syrian women, but she did not see the Imperator. Was he angry at her for the delay? Was there a chance he had moved
on in his tour of the eastern provinces? Had she staged this entire drama in futility? There would be no recovering from such
a blunder.

Kleopatra tried to maintain the mien of a goddess while her stomach churned. She smiled, waving gracefully, if languidly,
at the people who stood awestruck before the golden vessel, which glimmered wildly against the still, dusky sky. The river
reflected the lights, making a pool of luminescence around the boat. Where is he? she asked herself again and again, searching
every face on the dock while trying to appear detached. Finally, she saw Quintus Dellius slinking toward her, swishing his
hips from side to side like water in a moving goblet. He threw out his arms to the ladies-in-waiting, who helped him board
the vessel.

The Cupid boys parted their fans to give him access to the queen. He bowed dramatically before Kleopatra, rising slowly, as
if his blood rushed to his head. When he stood erect again, his eyes were wide. Perhaps he was drunk.

“Your Majesty!”

She could not tell if he was mocking her.

“How nice to see you, Dellius,” she said. “And where is the Imperator?” She could not make small talk. If Antony had left
Tarsus, she would have to make a hasty plan as to her next move.

“Why, he is in the marketplace hearing the local cases, though I imagine that at this point, he is very much alone. As you
can see, the entire community has come to greet you.”

“But not the Imperator?”

“Oh, he expects you this evening at his lodgings. He is most anxious to see you.”

No, that would not do. Kleopatra remembered the awful time long ago that a Roman dignitary, Cato, had summoned a king-her
father-to his lodgings. It was an indignity then, and it would be an indignity now. If only out of respect for the memory
of her father, she would not go to Antony. If he wished to negotiate, he must come to her. He must see how a queen arrives
to do business with a Roman general. No longer the girl in exile who rolled herself in a rug to meet Caesar, Kleopatra was
in full
command of herself and her nation. Her throne was unchallenged. She would sit on this chaise and act like a goddess until
he arrived.

“But Dellius, I have prepared so very diligently for the Imperator’s entertainment. I will not allow the burden of hospitality
to fall on his already overencumbered shoulders-broad and strong though they may be,” she said with just enough innuendo for
Dellius to take back to Antony as enticement. “He must come to me and reap the rewards of my attempts to amuse him. He won’t
regret it.”

“I shall tell him directly,” Dellius said. With a slight hop, he turned from her and went away quickly.

The sky had grown dark. Kleopatra remained on the chaise, holding her position, hoping her cosmetics had not begun to smear.
The air was cooler now, but the boys continued to fan the insects away from her face. When would he appear? She wanted to
slip below into her cabin, wash her face, eat a small meal, and go to bed.

She heard his voice before she saw him, talking loudly and coarsely to his companions. The flat sound of Roman sandals on
the deck was unmistakable, as was the laughter in Antony’s voice. The voices and the footsteps grew closer and suddenly stopped.
Silence hung in the air, the whooshing of the fans the only sound breaking the quiet. Then he laughed as only Antony laughed,
not from the throat, but from the great cavern of his being, as if every organ, every ounce of oxygen and blood was in on
the joke. She heard the footsteps quicken, rushing toward her. She did not move.

“Your Royal Grace!”

The lady-in-waiting who had rehearsed announcing the Imperator tried to say his name but was interrupted.

“No need to announce such an old friend,” he said, rushing the chaise but stopping short at the sight of her. His eyes grew
wide. He forgot to bow, standing very still with his mouth open and his lips frozen. Whatever he had intended to say was swallowed
in the astonishment at her image, or so she hoped.

Finally, he recovered. “It is as they are saying in the marketplace. Aphrodite has come to Tarsus.”

To revel with the new god, she replied, sitting up.

She did not invite him to be seated, but enjoyed the awkwardness of him standing before her.

“Is this the vessel that astonished Caesar with its luxury?” he asked.

“Yes, but it was so old and in disrepair when he sailed with me. I’ve had it renovated for you, Imperator, in honor of your
great victory over Caesar’s assassins. It was the very least I could do to show my gratitude to you for vanquishing the enemies
of my son’s father. I tried to guess at your tastes, but time was short. You must forgive my delay in answering your summons.
You see, I was in the throes of trying to please you.”

She had never known him to be without words-millions of words, flowery, hyperbolic, ribald-whatever the occasion called for.
But now he stood quietly, his thick brown eyebrows asking questions, making three deep wrinkles in his high and fine forehead.
His curly hair was clean and free of pomade, hanging loosely about his face and ears; his body was wide and full, muscles
rippling from the recent labors of war. As always, he belted his tunic very low like Herakles, and a broadsword hung at his
side. He was as superb a specimen of the human male as the species had to offer, she thought. Not slim and elegant like Archimedes,
whose beautiful masculinity held a touch of feminine refinement, but rather someone entirely masculine. She invited him to
sit beside her, and he took his place almost gingerly, sweeping his cape aside. She recalled when she was a girl of fourteen
and had met him for the first time. Then, too, he had swept his cape over his shoulder, revealing his powerful arms, and she
had been taken by the beauty of the gesture. He sat very near her and she smelled his musky scent.

“We have many things to discuss,” he said. “The world has changed since we last met.”

“Yes, and we have changed with it. Will you and your men dine with me this evening? I’ve had my cooks prepare a twelve-course
meal to serve forty.”

“Forty? There are but fifteen of us here,” he said.

“But do your men not like the company of women?” she asked, looking at her ladies in white, each chosen for her beauty and
ability to converse.

“Do you mean to have them enchanted?” he said.

“I mean to alleviate their boredom while their leader discusses the business of state,” she replied without any coyness.

“Caesar always admired the many variations of your personality Kleopatra. He used to say to me, ’Antony, she is not a mere
woman, but she is all women.’”

“It is simply a necessary element of being a queen. Most women must enthrall only one man. I must have that power over an
entire kingdom.”

“And have you any objections to turning the full force of your attentions on one man?” he asked, sitting so close to her that
she could feel his heat and smell the wool in his clothes. He looked down at her, gazing quickly over her body, taking in
her face, her breasts, her legs, her feet. Then he looked back into her eyes.

“It depends, Imperator,” she replied. “On whether I have the power of his full attention in return.”

“And what is it that commands this exclusive attention?”

She smiled at him. It was time for levity. “Shall we start with dinner?”

How many pheasants, quails, doves, boars, lambs would have to be roasted, braised, boiled, before her terms were accepted?
How many fish would have to be procured, skinned, and cooked in sauces? How many heads of lettuce washed and salted? How many
dates and figs harvested, how many cheeses sliced and served, how many enormous jars of wine emptied into gold goblets and
spilled down Roman throats before Kleopatra had exactly what she wanted? Her cooks had brought ample food to feed a legion
of men, or so they thought, but now, on the third day of the festivities, Kleopatra sent them into the Syrian markets to bargain
for the town’s goods, paying exorbitant prices and shouting down the local shoppers to procure yet more delicacies to appease
the Roman contingent.