Pharaoh (51 page)

“I had no idea people would pay so handsomely for a fish,” she says to the minister in charge of the fisheries.

He smiles and tells her that it is a delicious fish indeed-small, sweet, delicate-and he will have three dozen sent to the
palace this very day “But please eat them fresh, Your Majesty.”

Through the day, every ledger sheet she reads drives deeper the irony that the Romans are the great market for Egypt’s goods.
Roman artisans demand Egyptian alabaster; Roman jewelry makers seek Egyptian garnets, serpentine, amethysts, and turquoise.
Fortunes are being made copying Kleopatra’s rings and necklaces and selling them to the wives of the men who are at war with
her. She thinks, When we are successful against Octavian, we will once again have access to certain trade routes that will
increase our businesses one hundredfold. She tells her children, “My father had his eye on certain eastern trade routes, but
he was never able to negotiate clearance with the Romans. Even Antony’s wide sweep of power has not been able to loosen the
Roman grip. I believe we can once again monopolize certain goods coming out of the east. We must capitalize on the pirates’
devastation to the markets at Delos.”

They have no idea what she means, but she talks very quickly, her brain spilling over with ideas for raising capital. She
whispers to them as if everything is a secret: “We have not yet properly exploited the abundant wool produced at the mills
by the slave girls, but I have plans to introduce those goods to new markets. The women run that business most efficiently,
and the quality of the product is excellent. They are the most industrious workers we have.”

She thinks to herself, I would like to appoint that sedulous old Parthian woman who runs the dye shop the new Minister of
Agriculture. Productivity would double and famine would be eliminated.

She knows she is overloading the children with knowledge, but she must impress upon them what their real duties entail. She
tells them every day that all is not wearing crowns and attending ceremonies, or raising armies and fighting wars, but making
sure that the government industries turn a profit and that money sits in the treasury. For without profit, there is no loyalty
among the subjects, and no political leverage in the world at large.

They say, Yes, Mother, we understand. And they wait for her permission to return to the lives they lead as children away from
her counsel.

“You are all dismissed but for Caesarion,” she says, and she thinks she sees him wince. He is tired, rubbing his eyes, but
he must learn to be tireless. At his age, she was constantly at her father’s side. Caesarion has been groomed from boyhood
for the duties he will assume when he comes of age. She does not know how to tell him that this may arrive sooner than he
wishes.

“It’s over, Kleopatra. It is simply over.”

Antony’s servant Eros is on his knees, hunched over so that his face is hidden while he unlaces Antony’s heavy sandals hammered
with bronze studs. Antony steps out of them and holds his arms out like a dancer while Eros takes his belt and sword. Kleopatra
sees that Eros, who is young and Greek, is trying not to cry. Antony is neither angry nor depressed but looks at Kleopatra
with resigned eyes.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

Antony sighs. “Does it matter? It is a scenario we have seen more than once and will see again if we allow it.”

Kleopatra waits impatiently. She does not know what Antony intends to do. She has never seen him like this, so acceding to
what he now considers his destiny, so devoid of emotion. He is neither depressed nor depraved as he was after Actium. He is
like the mummy of Antony, drained of his fiery blood, robbed of his munificent heart. He has the flesh and bones of Antony,
but Kleopatra cannot find the anima of the man inside those flat eyes.

“Humor me and tell me the details,” she says, trying to ignite their rapport.

“Will you take these dirty things and burn them?” he says to Eros, who is helping him into a linen robe. “The stink of war
is indelibly etched upon them. It is a scent I no longer wish to smell.”

Eros quietly gathers Antony’s shoes, belt, tunic, and cloak, bows his head to his master, and leaves.

“Can you not guess what happened, Kleopatra? Has it not been reported to you that I sailed into the Great Harbor without the
fleet I left with? And can you not deduce what that means?”

He acts exasperated, not with what had happened, but with her.
“There was a brief skirmish off the coast of Cyrene. Gallus’s navy had been fortified with ships from who knows where. When
my commanders saw that we were egregiously outnumbered, they chose to secure their safety and sailed right over to him. And
that is that.”

Kleopatra is not prepared for such a setback, and yet some part of her must have anticipated this to make her take the drastic
and secret action she has. She does not know what to say. She is out of words and out of plans.

They sit together in chairs in a block of silence. The sun is setting, and the red dusk flushes the room, lighting their faces.
It is warm, but the twilight breeze is beginning to blow. They are very still, as if they are some mosaic painting of richness
and domestic perfection. Just a man and his wife in a room where bowls of fruit are within their reach no matter where they
sit, where alabaster statues make monuments of every corner. Where the eagle of Ptolemy hovers over the fluffy brocaded quilts
on the state bed. Where the Sun God’s presence fills every inch of the cavernous quarters with his divine blush. Perhaps if
they do not move, she thinks, they can maintain this fantasy of peaceful luxury.

But she cannot stay silent. She wishes with all her heart that she could just sit with him, perhaps hold his hand, and listen
to the ocean’s melody outside the window. Instead, she reverts to the old efforts of trying to cheer and rally. “I am told
that an army of gladiators has gathered in support of you and marches toward us.”

Antony smiles, but it is the shell of a smile, as if a puppeteer is moving his lips. “Ah, for once my information network
has exceeded yours. There is so very much you do not yet know. How is that, Kleopatra? Have you been sick in bed and not receiving
reports?”

She does not answer but regrets having opened her mouth. She does not want to know anything he is about to tell her, but he
continues: “Do you remember our friend Quintus Didius?”

Didius was the Roman Antony had installed as governor of Syria, and in the process, had made very rich. Kleopatra nods her
head, but it is an effort. Her face and neck rebel at having to acknowledge Didius, who she knows is going to be the reason
for a flood of bad news.

“Didius and Herod have thrown in together. They stopped the gladiators and negotiated with them. Herod went to Rhodes to pledge
his support, laying himself and all his kingdom-the kingdom I gave him,
mind you-at Octavian’s feet. I suppose he is just an ordinary man after all, trying to stay alive. A condition I no longer
find so desirable.”

Kleopatra took Gaza from Herod long ago and now he has made her pay for it. How many times has she begged Antony to disenfranchise
Herod, arguing that such an independent power must not sit at Egypt’s border? And now the traitor-for all that Antony did
for him against Kleopatra’s will-has thrown himself behind Octavian, making it possible for Rome to march into Egypt from
the east. Oh, she is so tired of being proven right when it is too late.

She feels a numbness come over her. She wants to tell Antony what she has done in his absence but she cannot say the words.
If Octavian accepts her offer, she will carry out the terms she set. Only Antony can stop this. “And now?” she asks.

“Kleopatra, I am very, very tired. In the end, it comes to this. Fatigue. There is nothing left to do. Herod is the last straw.”

“But Polemo and Mithridates and Archelaus and your other allies? Why are they not here planning to rebuff Octavian’s advance?”

“I have given them enough money to hide safely in Greece, or wherever they choose. I have seen enough men die. All I wish
for now is a good meal and a long rest.”

Kleopatra’s first thought is that she does not care who dies as long as Antony lives, but she does not say that for fear of
annoying him. She whispers, “There are worlds far away where we might take our treasure and begin again.” She tries to inject
the old enthusiasm into her voice. She sounds instead like a street performer reading bad poetry for pennies from a crowd,
but she continues. “Euergetes, the eighth King Ptolemy, sent a party of two hundred explorers and cartographers to India.”

He interrupts her. “Malchus has destroyed the ships that would take us to India.”

“Yes, and we will stop in the city of Petra and kill him for his deed. But listen to me, my darling, there are trade routes
all the way to the kingdom of Tamil that we might travel in disguise. I have ways of smuggling our money ahead of us. Legend
has it that there are whole kingdoms there waiting for kings, and that is certainly what Alexander believed. From a position
of power in India, we might negotiate with the Parthians against Octavian.”

He turns his eyes on her. They are oceans of age and fatigue. “I am an old Roman soldier, Kleopatra. I simply do not see myself
as the king of India.”

Must a man reach the pinnacle of his success by a certain age? she wonders. Otherwise, do their wills evaporate?

“What do you propose?” she asks, though she does not wish to hear the answer.

“You and your family have governed this country since the time of Alexander. There is no reason that should not continue.
I have reason to believe that Octavia will persuade her brother to be kind to my children; she is not an evil woman and is
very soft on the welfare of children. This morning I sent Antyllus off with a guard to meet up with Octavian. He carries a
small fortune, and my offer to take my own life in exchange for your safety and your throne. Egypt would no longer be independent,
and you would be reduced to a client, of course, but there are worse fates.”

Kleopatra’s hand goes to her head. She laughs in spite of herself and in spite of the baffled and hurt look on Antony’s face.
At least he has come back to life enough to be affected by her puzzling laughter at his plan.

“I do not mean to amuse you, Kleopatra. I am serious. I wrote to him this morning.”

“My darling, one week ago, I sent Octavian my royal insignia and a small fortune, offering to abdicate and to exile myself
to the location of his choice in exchange for the right of the children to keep the throne.”

Antony smiles. “What a bitter chain of command we have made.”

“Does Antyllus know the terms you are sending by his hand?”

“Of course not. I told him that under no circumstances is he to hear any discussion. He is to carry back an answer in the
form of a letter written in Octavian’s hand and sealed with his own seal.”

Kleopatra wonders if Antony is more anxious to relieve himself from his loss of honor than to see to her safety. “Would you
leave me at his mercy?” she asks. “That is where I would be if you took your own life. He is not a man to honor agreements.
Haven’t we learned that by now?”

“If I were out of the way, there would be no reason for him to harm you, Kleopatra. You govern this country very efficiently.
There is no reason he should prevent you from continuing to do so, and there is no rea-

son for you to dress as a camel boy and flee to India. Or to go to some remote island and live in exile. Octavian will trust
no Roman governor in Egypt. He will need you. Of course, you would be sharing your wealth with him, but he won’t last forever.
Soon, another man calling himself Caesar will rise up and strike him down. Your own son, perhaps.”

“We have lived together for thirteen years, and we will die together. That is my final decision, and you cannot change my
mind. If you take your life, I will follow before your stealthy spirit is fully out of your body.” She hopes this threat will
forever squelch his thirst for death.

“Kleopatra, you are not reasonable. We have many children between us. Who will protect them?”

“If you are worried about your children, then act to save your own life instead of offering it up as if you were no more than
a goat on the sacrificial slab and that creature your god.”

His face slackens. He looks more tired still. “Your Royal Grace is wonderful with words, but words have become even more futile
than deeds. I will protect you with my last breath, Kleopatra, but you must look beyond that moment, I am warning you. If
not for yourself, then for the sake of the children.”

She does not tell him she has already received a letter calling for his death. She cannot. She must fight his urge to die
until the gods break this dark chain of misfortune. Perhaps there is another negotiation to be made, something that has not
yet occurred to her but will if she keeps her wits about her and Antony’s melancholia at bay. She hears her father asking
the question he used to put to her under the guise of mirth:
What is the one thing the Romans always need, and the one thing we always have? What is it, little Kleopatra? Say the word
with me!
She can see her father’s big smile pushing his chubby cheeks up, making crescent wrinkles around his eyes, his brows raised
in anticipation of her answer
. Come now, child, what is the one thing the Romans always want from us? Let us say it in unison, and may you never forget
it.
She sees her father put his lips together to sound the first letter of the most important word in the Roman vocabulary, and
they say it together, delighting in each of its syllables:
Money!