Pharaoh (56 page)

“It is time to negotiate, Your Majesty,” Hephaestion adds. “The opportunity may not come again.”

Charmion does not let go. “Think of your children. And of your father and his father and his father and the many kings from
whom you are descended.”

Kleopatra frees herself from Charmion’s grip and opens the tiny portal. All she can see is the chin strap of a Roman helmet
and a square jaw “What is your message?”

“You must open the doors and come with us.”

“And why should I do such a thing?”

“You are to trust in Caesar’s wisdom and mercy. He told me to tell you to have courage. Release yourself from your prison,
come to him, and let the negotiations begin.”

“A moment, sir.” Hephaestion closes the portal and whispers, “Do you hear what he says? Octavian only wished for Antony’s
death. Now is the time to ask for favor.”

“Why is he so willing to negotiate, when he has ignored all our attempts? He wants the contents of this chamber.” How could
one so wise as Hephaestion be so naive?

She opens the portal. “If your master wishes to negotiate, then tell him to come to this door and swear upon the name and
memory of Julius Caesar that he will allow my children to retain their titles and their thrones. For myself, I am done with
public life and wish to go into exile. Those are my terms.”

“And if he does not accept them?”

“Then you may tell him that all that he covets he will have, but it will be in ash.”

For one hour, she weeps over Antony’s body, feeling the warmth seep
away, when a new pair of lips appears at the portal. It is Cornelius Gallus, who had turned Antony’s troops against him at
Crete.

Kleopatra cannot wait to speak to him, opening the portal herself and breathing venom. “Ah, Gallus, the Imperator’s body lies
dead, not by your hand but by his own. So you see that in the end, he succeeded where you failed. Have you come to take revenge
upon a dead man? Aren’t your hands stained enough with his blood?”

Hephaestion stands beside her fanning his arms in an effort to get her to calm down. “Hear him out, Your Majesty,” he says
loud enough for Gallus to hear.

“I have come from Caesar, with an answer to your offer, madam. He asks that you first leave your shelter. Then he will comply
with your wishes.”

Kleopatra is disgusted. “Why will he comply with my wishes only after I leave my shelter? Does he think me such a fool? If
he has any intention of complying with my wishes, let him come here now and swear it to me. Why does he not come himself but
send messengers? Is he afraid to see me?”

“He is settling the affairs of the city, madam.”

Her city. “And what is more important to settle than the city’s queen?”

She slams the portal shut. “Do you see his method? He thinks he can lull me into opening these doors. Then he will have everything
he needs, and I will be taken prisoner or killed. Or both.”

“The Imperator believed he would negotiate,” Charmion says tersely.

“You did not trust his judgment in life, Charmion. Has he so risen in your esteem in death?” She turns to Hephaestion, whispering,
“Prepare the fire.”

“Madam, I care nothing for my life, but if you burn the entire treasure, will he not take revenge upon the children?”

Kleopatra sees no way out. Antony lies dead, Iras sponging the blood from his body so that he will not go disheveled to the
gods. Through her grief, she is furious that she agreed to be the one to stay alive. Should it not be him, bargaining with
the man he knows so well? Romans are notoriously merciful to their fellow countrymen in matters of civil strife. If Octavian
had greeted the familiar face of Antony,
would he not have capitulated to at least some of their demands? Now it was far too late. Antony’s honor is preserved in death,
and Kleopatra is left to defend her children, her people, her throne, her dignity. She knows that Octavian only wants her
money. Would he trade it for her life? If she opens the door, he will have both and she will have no bargaining power.

She goes to a wooden trunk, opens it, and removes a large emerald ring and a small ruby pendant. She opens the portal and
hands the jewels to Gallus. “The emerald is for your general, the ruby, a gift you may give to the lady of your choosing.
I repeat my terms. Say to your general that I respectfully request his presence so that we may talk face-to-face. Say to him
that I wish no misrepresentations made through the inadvertent mistakes of mediators. Our business is too important and too
delicate a matter.”

“Madam, I do not believe he will be summoned. He has sent me with his assurances. I beg you to do as he wishes.”

“I do not believe I shall.”

“He asked me to remind you of the merciful qualities of Julius Caesar, whose every aspect he emulates.”

Kleopatra thinks of the many agreements with Antony Octavian failed to honor: how he neglected to send the promised twenty
thousand troops for the Parthian war; how he asked Antony to come to Brundisium to make peace and then failed to show; how
he refused to answer any of their requests for negotiation, instead confiscating money sent as peace offerings. How he won
Antony’s soldiers by bribery. She thinks of the stories of how he feigns illness during battle, turning all responsibilities
over to Marcus Agrippa; how he has called her every foul name before the senate; how he used Cicero and then sanctioned his
death and his posthumous degradation-severed head and hands ignobly displayed in the Forum. How he murdered three hundred
of his senatorial colleagues at Perugia, offered up as human sacrifices after his successful siege. How it was said that his
lust forced a man to give up his own wife to him; how he turned his agents into whoremasters, procuring young girls for him,
tearing them from their homes and families.

He emulates Julius Caesar in nothing. Caesar’s victories were won by Caesar’s genius; his lovers conquered by his charm. His
enemies in war
pardoned as if they had done nothing more than deliver a slight insult over a drunken dinner. There is no evidence that Caesar’s
heir has inherited anything but his money

“Still, I must ask you to reiterate what I have said. The general may choose his response.”

“Your Majesty you must trust Caesar. With my own eyes I saw him shed tears upon learning that Marcus Antonius had taken his
own life . . .”

She will hear no more of these lies. “Why do you not go forth with my answer?” She has lost patience with this Gallus, this
messenger. Why does he dally? Does he really think that he, a second-rate commander, may negotiate with a queen? Is this yet
one more of Octavians insults?

Charmion screams. Hephaestion puts himself in front of the queen, making a shield out of his body. Iras cowers behind the
couch where Antony lies dead. A Roman soldier is through the window, descending the ladder. Others follow, one scaling the
wall with ropes, swords and armor clanking a song of death.

She will not give them the glory of kill or capture. She pushes Hephaestion forward and reaches beneath her dress for the
dagger. With a deep breath, she pulls her arm back so that the blow will be deep and fatal. Before she strikes, she meets
Charmion’s eyes, eyes that have watched over her all her days. Like herself, Charmion has assessed the situation quickly,
has seen that once again treachery and not honorable negotiation has always been Octavian’s plan. Charmion gives the queen
an almost indiscernible nod as if to say,
Yes, this is the proper thing to do.
Kleopatra braces herself for death, and with all her might, brings the vulnerable spot right below the breastplate. But Hephaestion
catches her wrist before the knife hits its mark. She screams at his betrayal, and he pulls her close to him, whispering,
Only those who live can negotiate.
And then Roman hands are on her, and the lips she recognizes as belonging to Proculeius are barking orders to make certain
that no other weapons are hidden on her body, no vials of poison, nothing that may be used as an instrument of death. “The
general needs her alive,” he says. To her, he adds, “He wishes the opportunity to demonstrate his mercy to the queen.”

Kleopatra refrains from struggle. She will not give them the gratification of using force on her. Charmion and Hephaestion
are as stoic as
old soldiers as they are taken captive. Iras cries softly, offering his hands to be enchained, his eyes still on Antony’s
body that he does not wish to abandon. Despite that she is in tatters, chest red and swollen from her own lacerating nails,
eyes puffed up from indignation and tears, Kleopatra looks Proculeius in the eye. “Do not degrade the body of the Imperator,
I warn you. I am still breathing, and I can still make you pay.” He casts his eyes downward, ashamed, she hopes, of his part
in Octavian’s deceit. She is more concerned at the moment of what will happen to Antony’s vulnerable corpse. Now that he is
no longer able to defend himself, she must see to his proper burial, just as he once argued with her father for the burial
rights of Berenike’s husband, Archelaus. As she is led past his body, she sees that the Romans keep their distance from him,
and at least one-could it be one that Antony himself had once led into battle?-has his hand over his mouth as if to stifle
a cry for their betrayed commander.

“Citizens of Alexandria, arise.”

He stands on a tall platform erected by his men for the occasion of addressing the citizenry of the conquered city, in the
great Gymnasium where princes and kings and the Greek elite have taken their exercise for hundreds of years. Before him, the
terrified populace has gathered on their collective knees, begging for life, for mercy, for whatever he may decide to give
them. It is a sight to which he has grown rapidly accustomed, this subjugation of a large group of people. And he has begun
to enjoy the look of relief on their cowering faces when he announces that their lives have been extended; that they have
his permission to go home, live their lives, and die in their beds at a ripe old age.

“People of Alexandria, have no fear. I have visited the tomb of Alexander, whose genius gave birth to this magnificent city,
and whom its citizens and indeed the rest of the world call Great. The city, I am pleased to say, is no less great than its
founder. I have quickly fallen under its charms. And therefore, I acquit all of its citizens of any blame in the recent wars
between your queen and the Roman empire, and I welcome all of you into Rome’s embrace.”

The sycophant Arius who has not ceased clinging to Octavian’s cloak
since he entered the gates of Alexandria begins the applause, encouraging the suppliants to join him. The philosopher had
met Octavian at the eastern Gate of the Sun, reminding him of his status at the Greek school Octavian had attended as a young
man, and heaping all manner of praise upon him for his victory over the oppressor Marcus Antonius. All this while still in
possession of the money he had undoubtedly been given by Kleopatra for tutoring Caesar’s bastard son. Arius was so quick to
disclaim allegiance to Kleopatra and her heirs that Octavian made a mental note that here was a man who would do the same
to him were the circumstances reversed. So he paid little attention to the hand-kissing and flattery and got straight down
to business with this would-be philosopher and admirer. Where was Little Caesar? Arius, apparently anticipating Octavian’s
every request, offered that the boy king was on his way to India with his tutor, Rhodon, who fortunately was in Arius’s service.
Fascinating, Octavian had replied. Send a letter to Rhodon demanding them to return. Say that I have fallen under the queens
spell and am honoring her request to allow the boy to retain the throne.

Now Arius has worked the citizens of Alexandria into wild applause for Octavian’s bountiful mercy. Rather than continue his
address, Octavian decides to leave them on this high note, before any questions are asked; before anyone becomes too complacent
with his position and asks about the fate of their imprisoned queen. Let them be satisfied to return to their homes, embrace
their families, and thank the gods for his mercy. The issue of the queen will be settled quickly, while her subjects are still
astonished to find themselves alive and beyond retribution for supporting her in the war.

Octavian goes about his business in the next few days of claiming the city for his own, confident of his spell over the Alexandrian
people. From her imprisonment within the palace compound, Kleopatra sends a letter begging for the right to bury Antony properly.
Octavian wants no repercussions from any of Antony’s soldiers who have come over to him-the men can be so emotional when it
comes to Antony-so he allows it, not dreaming of the grandness of the queen’s design, nor of the adoration the people of the
city will unabashedly demonstrate. Without fear of retaliation, the entire city lines up in the streets to watch the cortege.
Octavian does not attend the funeral of his enemy, of course. But he receives eyewitness accounts, all corroborating the
enormity of the spectacle. Kleopatra has Antony embalmed in the Egyptian manner, though he is to be buried in the mausoleum
she has erected for herself Her treasures have been removed and catalogued by Octavian’s staff, and the queen has the chambers
redecorated with statues and other representations of the god Dionysus, the divinity with whom her people identified Antony