Pharaoh (37 page)

The priest raised an eyebrow, but Kleopatra saw the boy stifle a giggle.

“It has been decreed by the gods that your philosophy is lacking in humor, and that although you have served queen and country
well, you have done so without mirth. The gods won’t have it.”

“And why not?” asked the priest. “The gods are not known as joke-sters.”

“They fear that gloom is contagious, and may infect them all the way up on Olympus.”

Hephaestion looked at Kleopatra, who shrugged. The Romans laughed. Antony walked right up to the boy. “Why, you’re the discus
thrower. I saw you compete in the games at Ephesus.” He pinched his cheek, and the boy blushed and laughed. “You mustn’t stay
here with

these serious old men. It’s bad for the health and the humor. Tomorrow you’ll wake up and your spleen will be sour and your
balls all shriveled! No, boy, come with us. Come into the streets and help us spread our word.”

The boy looked at his host. “I give you leave,” Hephaestion said.

“No, no, you’re all coming with us,” Antony insisted. “Come on, get your cloaks. There’s no future here. It’s past midnight,
and you’re all sober.” He looked back at Kleopatra. “It’s a pathetic state of affairs. They must be helped.”

Antony hustled Hephaestion, the priest, the boy, and the queen into the streets, pouring liquor down their throats as they
walked. Hephaestion scowled as if he’d never drunk from a pouch, awkwardly opening his mouth wide so that nothing would spill
on his impeccable garments. But the priest took Antony’s arm, calling him the New Diogenes, Man of Philosophy, and sharing
his flask as if the two had been stationed together on a savage frontier and were celebrating their survival. Arm in arm they
walked to the next home, where Antony banged on the door demanding to see the head of the house.

“Sir, we are here to resolve your philosophical dilemmas,” he announced when Cleon, Minister of Finance, arrived at the door,
his eyes puffy with sleep.

The man looked puzzled enough.

“My apologies, Cleon,” said Kleopatra. “The good philosopher here was anxious over the state of your soul.”

“Well, what are they?” Antony demanded. “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”

“I have no philosophical dilemmas, sir. My mind is at peace, as was my body, until you came to my door.”

“Let me put it to you this way. If a man is wrested from his bed in the middle of the night and offered the opportunity for
mirth, should he make a rational decision, based on the hour at which he must rise in the morning or the duties he must attend
to the next day?”

“One should not count the queen’s money with a laggard’s mind,” Cleon answered.

“Oh, that is the excuse of an old man! Let’s say a chord is struck in the soul, Cleon. Looking into the eye of his seducer,
he remembers how his heart used to soar in his youth, before he became a Learned
Philosopher or an Important Man. Before he extinguished his passions and took up the ways of Reason and Duty and Money Let’s
say there is a sudden stirring in his body A memory of lost youth takes hold of him, and he wants to run into the street with
his friends and drink and laugh with them until dawn. What should such a man do?”

Cleon threw his arms up in the air. “What if the man has responsibilities to his government that must be attended to in the
morn?”

“Does dry action alleviate human suffering? Does the good man, the virtuous man, let Duty throw water on the fires of Passion
and Longing?”

“Answer carefully, Cleon,” Kleopatra called out. “There are those here who will report you to the queen.”

Cleon threw his outstretched arms around Antony. “He does not, Brother!” And Antony lifted the Minister of Finance up, threw
him on his back, and carried him into the streets.

On like this they went for hours, tumbling through the streets of the city’s finest neighborhood adjacent to the palace quarter,
dragging diplomats, rich merchants, landowners, and high-ranking officials from their homes to join their ragged band. Antony
invaded their kitchens, confiscated their wines for his flasks and his men, slapped their serving girls’ behinds, made naughty
comments to their wives, and brought the whole party-thirty in all-back to the palace. He opened the kitchens and was pleased
to find eight boars roasting in anticipation of his appetite and his unannounced guests. He did not know that Kleopatra had
sent a messenger ahead hours earlier to alert the cooks.

“Your kitchens are not kitchens, but enchanted places where feasts are conjured up by magic out of thin air,” he exclaimed
to Kleopatra, his eyes glowing as he looked over the guests, who were laughing and drinking and eating a meal as the sun came
up as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

She smiled, and decided to let him think that was true.

“Look at your Prime Minister, in earnest, drunken conversation with that boy. I do believe he is actually smiling,” Antony
said.

“Even he has had enough wine to crack open his somber frown.”

“Yes, the wine has made him believe in his good fortune. He looks absolutely certain that he is going to take that discus
thrower to his bed.”

“See what your recipe of mirth has done for my subjects? The most pessimistic among them have turned romantic.”

Antony took a tendril of her hair from the nape of her neck and wrapped it around his large index finger. “I am very much
at home here, Your Majesty More so than in my own land. Why is that?”

“Because you are Greek at heart, my darling. You are more than Greek. You are like me; you are all nationalities at once.
You love what is best and most beautiful in every land and in every kind of people.”

“You know what they say in Rome, Kleopatra? They say your court is decadent, concerned with all the wrong things. Well I say
you are concerned with all the right things. Is love of life and all its beauty and all its pleasures decadent?”

“Your countrymen would say so. But life is not so simple as they would have it. The Egyptians are concerned with deciphering
the mysteries of death, and the Greeks are devoted to the mysteries of life. For the Romans, there are no mysteries! There
is only conquest and domination. And money.”

Antony laughed. “Very succinct, Your Majesty.”

“You belong to us because you love all that we love.”

“All the world should have what we have here. Sumptuous foods washed down with sweet wines.”

“And poetry to help the digestion.”

“Athletes as swift and graceful as the gods, and actors whose voices sing the wisdom of the ancients.”

“Yes, and statues everywhere to our glorious ancestors and our illustrious gods.”

“And beautiful bejeweled women wrapped in silks and the sheerest of linens.”

“Ah yes, your world would not be complete without them, would it?”

He cuddled her very close to his chest. “No, Your Majesty, that would be the poorest of worlds. Not even the waves of the
great green sea could cheer a man in a world with no beautiful women.”

“You see why you are at home here, Imperator? Because all that you see, you love, and all that you see loves you. It is that
simple.”

Antony’s wide smile closed into an cynical grin. “For you, Kleopatra, it is that simple. But for a Roman to be so in love
with life’s more aesthetic offerings, I am afraid it is not simple at all.”

J
ulius Caesar had never feared fighting a war to find out who his friends were. Oh, it’s worth the trouble, he had assured
his adopted son. Most men are happy to join with their fellows in honoring you at the ceremonies, or to lie about on your
dining couch and shower you with words of loyalty and admiration while they eat your food and drink your wine. But none will
expose his breast to the sword to demonstrate a false loyalty.

Makes sense, the boy Octavian had replied.

War is so very helpful in so many ways, the uncle had said. It draws the lines of loyalty, puts money in the pockets, staves
off monotony, and invigorates the blood.

Now, so many years later, Octavian recalled that moment when the uncle and father had imparted one of the many gifts to his
nephew
cum
son in the short time they shared.

Octavian let himself feel a moment of nostalgia for his dead benefactor. How nice it would be to have him here today at his
wedding. How proud Caesar would have been at his nephew’s maneuverings. Yet he realized that if Caesar had lived, he, his
heir, would not be here in this grand mansion, marrying this exquisite girl who made his very blood shiver as it ran through
his veins. He would still be at military school in Greece studying strategy, rather than having put to the test all
that his uncle had tried to divulge to him through their few but long talks and by his lifelong example. Now, at twenty-four,
Octavian had not only inherited his uncle’s money by power of Caesar’s will, but had also gained his fearsome army and his
great mass of allies by power of cunning and bribery

Octavian was certain that his uncle-a god now, inhabiting that ether world where divinities lived-was pleased with him. He
had taken Caesar’s advice and fought a war to determine his friends, just as he had played into the hands of Caesar’s assassins
and had let them hang themselves in the end. That had worked well enough, so well that he was rid of all of them now, thanks
to his mother’s convincing him to make an alliance with Antony. It had been simple enough to ally with his uncle’s man; logical,
even, to put aside his tender young ego and let Antony think he could control their alliance simply because of his advanced
years and experience. Octavian had manipulated Cicero, his so-called mentor, to his own advantage, and Cicero was a genius.
Why could he not put on the same show for the blusterer Antony? The mask could be worn as long as necessary.

So that when Lucius Antonius, Antony’s ridiculous brother, took up arms against him under the command of Antony’s wife, Fulvia,
Octavian pondered long and hard before he took action. He did not know if Fulvia had lost her senses and acted without Antony’s
blessing, or if there was some secret correspondence between husband and wife in which Fulvia was charged with breaking the
alliance with Octavian so that Antony would not have to take the blame. Octavian had already openly broken with Fulvia-General
Fulvia, he called her, to throw into sharp relief the ridiculousness of a woman heading an army-and had returned her whimpering
daughter, Clodia, to her untouched. Oh, he wanted to touch her all right, but her whiny cries that she was frightened, and
her constant reminders that she had been sacrificed to him by her mother and stepfather, caused all the blood and semen to
take flight from his prick. If called on it, he could explain all that away man-toman to Antony, who would understand.

Octavian had quickly took as a new bride Scribonia, old and ugly but politically well-connected. He held his nose and impregnated
her, and just before he left to fight Fulvia and Lucius, she had given birth to a very fetching little infant girl, Julia,
who he was pleased to say looked
just like himself and not the old witch who incubated her in the womb. When he saw the child, he laughed at his own foolish
fears; he had anticipated the baby being born with its mother’s scowl and wrinkles, not realizing that it had taken a lifetime
of bitterness to carve those atrocities upon Scribonia’s face.

But the sight of Livia Drusilla had instantly wiped Scribonia from his mind like a clean cloth sweeps away a stain. The circumstances
under which the courtship and marriage had taken place were highly unusual, but they accomplished his goal-the goal of having
her. He saw her first in the city of Perugia, where he had starved out the allies of Fulvia and Lucius in a devastating siege.
Finally, after three months of famine, the renegades opened the gates to the city and let him in. Livia was with her husband,
a longtime supporter of Antony who had gone over to Fulvia and Lucius. She must have been forty years her husband’s junior.
As soon as Octavian saw her, with her clear pale skin drawn over her conspicuous cheekbones and her dark brown eyes sunken
into a face that had lived on less than a modicum of food for months, he knew that he must rescue her from this paunchy, grandfatherly
figure she had married, and take her into his young arms.

She was the essence of all that was Rome. It was not just the noble and ancient Etruscan features, but the carriage of her
tall person. He couldn’t place it exactly, but something about her reminded him of Caesar. Behind the feminine beauty, he
discerned a restless and questioning mind, which saw all but commented on nothing. She had the reserve that Caesar could call
upon at any time, whether in the midst of battle or in the most grueling negotiations. Livia wore that same mask that Caesar
had so successfully donned and which had served him so well. Octavian knew it as soon as he saw her dark eyes darting about
when he entered the city. He had met those eyes, and something deep inside himself had responded. He had lost his uncle too
soon, long before the mentoring was over. He had not had an opportunity to probe the mind of Julius in depth. Not that anyone
had. For who really knew his uncle? If Caesar was a correct witness to his own relationships, then the one in Egypt, the one
presently making a bedroom and war-room alliance with Antony, was the only one in whom he confided utterly. But Octavian doubted
that Caesar had given anyone, much less a foreign queen, open access to his thoughts, even if he so claimed.

The very instant Octavian saw Livia was prophetic. He had entered the walled city of Perugia with his men on the Ides of March-as
if that was not in itself a message from the god Julius-and immediately all the sniffling cowards who had deserted him and
joined his enemies began to appeal to him for mercy, heaping all praise and adulation upon him for his skills, crying that
they had underestimated him for his youth, allowing that he was the very soul of Caesar and that they would remain loyal to
him to their deaths.

What would my uncle do, he wondered? Then he remembered Caesar’s exemplary record of mercy. Should he imitate his uncle’s
nonchalant generosity and let them all return to their homes? How his beneficence would be talked about through Italy! But
then he also remembered his own needs. Caesar’s troops had still not received recompense from Caesar’s war against Pompey
and the Republicans. They had backed Octavian in this present conflict because he promised to deliver not only money but land.
He had taken great pains to settle some of the soldiers, but the vast majority were still standing before him with their hands
out. Where was he to get this precious, promised land?

Octavian looked at the faces of his enemies, Romans once fat from the lavish lifestyles they enjoyed in Italy. Their eyes,
sunken deep into their sockets, implored him to believe that their treachery would not be repeated. As he scrutinized their
faces for signs of sincerity or treachery, he tried to calculate how many hundreds of thousands of acres they must own among
them, and how nicely those acres would be divided among thousands of soldiers. Then he calculated how long it would take the
angry and weary soldiers to turn on him should Antony decide to leave Kleopatra’s bed and return to Italy to avenge the defeat
of his wife and brother. When Antony returned, these same men who were now imploring him for mercy would turn against him
in a heartbeat.

With all of this in mind, he gave his answer to his enemies: “If you are prepared to be true to me until death, then even
you shall pass this test of fealty, gentlemen, because all of you must die immediately.” And then he turned away to avoid
the look of horror on their faces.

Oh, it wasn’t what Caesar would have done, but look where Caesar’s mercy got him. Twenty-odd blows of the dagger into his
merciful and forgiving flesh, delivered by many of those same men who had enjoyed his leniency. Besides, Caesar, more than
Octavian, could afford to be
merciful; Caesar had
never
been in the position of having to face Antony’s wrath.

Octavian ordered his men to march the captives to the sacrificial altar. There he gave a short speech about the god Julius,
and how those who took up arms against his rightful heir were in a sense murdering him again, and how, on this anniversary
of his death, they would be sacrificed to placate him.

Then he instructed his incredulous men to sacrifice three hundred of their fellow Romans-senators and aristocrats one and
all-right then and there in a ritual offering to the Divine Julius Caesar. Many of those soldiers who had served Caesar tried
to protest, but enough of them had put together the same formula that Octavian had already come up with: Every one of these
men was a holder of great parcels of land that would pass to the state-hence to the soldiers-upon their death.

With that motivation, the ceremony began. Unarmed and too weak from starvation to defend themselves, a few tried to run. Most
went to their deaths screaming at him, cursing him, condemning him, but that did not bother Octavian, because as soon as he
looked into the eyes of Livia Drusilla, all ambient sound was vanquished, and the only thing he could hear was the pounding
of his own heart. She looked back at him, not with anger or bitterness or even judgment of any kind, though her husband was
one who was slated to die. He could not guess what was behind those eyes, but he knew that he had to find out, and, whatever
it was, claim it for his own. He couldn’t describe the impact of her look, but he knew that he must act quickly to secure
her for himself. When the death sentence was announced, she was standing next to her husband. He closed his eyes, accepting
his Fate, but she reached out her long, thin arm and placed it-strained palm facing outward-across his chest, like a sentinel
protecting a charge. It was a simple gesture, but not to be challenged. Behind her, a governess held her infant son, clutching
the child and weeping over the impending death of its father, but Livia did not move. She just stood there with her arm across
her husband’s chest forbidding either his movement or the soldiers from taking him. Octavian thought at that moment that she
might be a goddess, or if not a divine being, then one inspired by those heavenly ladies. No mortal woman could have made
his very will a prisoner to her eyes.

He walked right up to her, mesmerized by her gaze. “You may fol-

low your leader to Greece,” he said, for that was where Fulvia had fled when she knew her quest for power was lost. “And you
may take your family with you. But you must return to Rome within the month, or there will be a price to pay.”

The girl said nothing but squinted her eyes against the sun that lit Octavian from behind. Her husband, Tiberius Nero, remained
silent, confused, perhaps, as to why he had been granted this reprieve. But he was a rich man and probably thought that had
something to do with it. Only the governess wailed her thanks to Octavian and to the gods as she held the baby up to the skies,
proclaiming him the most blessed of children.

“Do you understand me?” Octavian asked Livia. She did not remove the barrier of her arm that separated her husband from him,
nor did she say one word of thanks.

“I do indeed,” she replied.

But she hadn’t understood, not really, because when Octavian came to them back in Rome with his demand, they were stunned.
It was simple. She was to divorce Tiberius immediately and marry him. Octavian had already put Scribonia away, and had convinced
his allies in the senate to hurry along the process by lifting the imposed amount of time before remarriage. It would not
be a problem, he explained to Tiberius and Livia, and hardly a big demand to make in exchange for their lives.

“But she is pregnant with my child,” Tiberius said.

“Yes, I’ve thought of that,” Octavian replied. “If it’s a boy, I’ll send him to you to be raised in your household.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Tiberius said.

“The death sentence was not commuted without condition,” Octavian replied. “Just because we are in Rome does not mean that
it won’t be carried out. We made a bargain, if you recall.”

“I
recall,” Livia answered. “Do you guarantee the safety of my children and their rights to bear their father’s name and to
be reared in his home?”

“I do, Madam,” Octavian said. “I do, indeed, on my word and on the memory of the Divine Julius Caesar.”

“Then make arrangements right away for our wedding. We shall have it right here in my husband’s home with his blessing.”

Tiberius quivered and twitched but did not protest. Octavian was
heartened by her words-thrilled, truth be known-but he did not suffer the illusion that she said them in the spirit of love.
She seemed at that moment more the general than Fulvia had ever been. Fulvia had emotions that ran high, despite her ability
to calculate and maneuver. There was no emotion in what Livia had said, merely the acknowledgment of a business deal. Whether
she closed that deal out of fear, duty, or ambition, he could not decipher.

Now Octavian’s bride sat next to him stiff as stone and puffed up with pregnancy. Occasionally she looked in his direction
and offered up a half-moon of a smile, but it looked painted on her face rather than animated by a feeling of happiness. Six
months along, still, no one said a word about her condition. In fact, despite the odd circumstances of the wedding, everyone
ate and drank and celebrated the union with pleasure, even Tiberius Nero, the father of the seed that grew inside her belly.
Well, Octavian
would
do what was right. He would send the child to the father after it was born, particularly if it was a boy. A girl might only
be a burden to Tiberius, and would make a good companion to his little Julia.