Pharaoh (58 page)

“Your Majesty.” The young man is on one knee, pressing one of those shriveled hands to his cheek. She hears the pity in his
voice, the almost ironic use of her title, and she withdraws her hand.

“How is it that you got permission to see me, Cornelius, when your general thinks me either too dangerous or too lowly to
set eyes upon me?”

“The general is all too familiar with the stories of your charms, madam. He heard them directly from his uncle. He is a man
like any
other and does not wish to make himself vulnerable to your famous enchantment.”

Kleopatra finds that she is long past parrying with charming rogues. Despite her intention to use charm, she feels impatience
insisting its way into her words. “Please! There is no need to invoke the ghost of Caesar, nor to taunt an ill woman with
outrageous flattery. The general has my money and my country. There is nothing more I can offer him. And that is his conundrum,
is it not?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, madam,” Cornelius says as if genuinely puzzled. He takes a seat opposite the queen. “The general
sent me to check on your condition. He heard of your illness and wishes to know if you are improved.”

“Why is he so concerned over my health? Does it really matter to him whether I live or die? Tell me, Cornelius. You have his
ear, or you would not be sitting here. In which condition does he prefer me? Dead or living? Which would serve his purpose?”

Though they are alone, Cornelius gets up from his seat and kneels next to Kleopatra so that he might whisper in her ear. “That
is what I have come to tell you. In the name of Julius Caesar, for whose memory my father died, I did not want to be the bearer
of this news.”

Oh, these Romans, so deficient in the theatrical arts, are such natural performers. She feels her anger rise-a sign of improving
health. “Then let us not prolong your agony.”

“Madam.” The eyes are as wide as a cow’s and threaten to spill conjured little tears. The brows are knitted in false anxiety.
“The general asks me to inform you that he is preparing to leave Alexandria for Rome. You are to prepare to leave as well.
In three days’ time, you and your two children will travel to Rome.”

“Prisoners?”

“Yes. And marched as such in his triumphal parade in the capital.”

She takes her time responding. His words send chills through her body. She is not sure if it is the fevers returning or the
fear that what he says is true.

“I see. The general is to march the mother of Caesar’s only son in chains through Rome, along with two of the children of
the Imperator? Do I understand that correctly?”

“That is correct, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Cornelius. You may leave now.”

He looks amazed at his hasty dismissal. Clearly he had anticipated some greater scene, some wonderful histrionic episode that
he might relate to his commander. “Is that all you have to say on the matter?” His voice is shaky. Caesar will be so disappointed
at the abrupt conclusion to the meeting.

She smiles. “That is all I have to say.”

Charmion returns to the room as Dolabella leaves. “Is your fever worsening? Is that why you sent him away?” Charmion’s serene
hand is on Kleopatra’s forehead. “I’ll send for cool compresses.”

Kleopatra stops her. She stands and begins pacing. “No, wait. As a matter of fact, this visit has remarkably improved my condition.”

“Kleopatra, please get back in bed. You are no better than when you were eleven years old. You are not well.”

“I did not think Octavian would take me for a fool. I don’t know what he has planned, but it is certainly not what he sent
young Dolabella here to say.”

“And what is that?”

“That he will send me and the younger children to Rome and march us in his victory parade.”

“Don’t be naive, Kleopatra. Do you think that is not within the scope of his evil?”

“No, but I don’t think he is so stupid or so short-sighted. He plots and schemes with the skill of a Sophoclean dramatist.
He is not a man of the moment; the tentacles of his schemes reach far into the future. No matter how desperate he is for my
humiliation, he knows that even the barbarous citizens of Rome will not take kindly to a queen marched in chains like a common
animal, much less the children of Antony.”

Charmion is skeptical. “He has maligned you much in that city. Are you so sure the barbarians are not calling for the degradation?”

“Charmion, do you not remember that all Rome was outraged when my sister Arsinoe was marched in chains in Caesar’s parade?
The women of the city rallied behind her though she was a declared enemy. Remember, Arsinoe declared herself Caesar’s enemy.
Octavian declared
me
an enemy of Rome. There are too many in the city who know better. He wouldn’t risk it. Not with Antony’s death fresh in everyone’s
mind, particularly his soldiers. Their loyalty to Octavian is new and tenuous at
best. The sight of Antony’s little ones-oh, and do they not look just like their father?-might be just the catalyst to turn
at least a few of them on their new commander. I don’t know what he means by sending me this news, but I am sure it would
be a mistake to take it literally.”

“But what are you going to do? What if in three days’ time his men come and put you in chains and take you and the children
away? Will you take the risk?”

“Yes. Because I believe I know why he sent the message. He is hoping that the news will either worsen my illness and kill
me, or that my pride will outweigh my will to live and I will kill myself.”

“And is he right on either charge?”

“He thinks he’s the cat and I’m the mouse, Charmion, but I will surprise him yet.”

“But what will you do?”

“Watch me.” Kleopatra takes a seat at a small table. She picks up a pen and begins to write, but the sleeves of her dressing
gown drag across the page. She stands, throws off the gown, and takes up the pen again over Charmion’s protests that she is
killing herself by not keeping warm.

She mouths the words of her letter to Charmion as she writes:

To:
General Gaius Octavian
From: Kleopatra VII, Queen of the Two Lands of Egypt

I have received my old friend Cornelius Dolabella and heard the news from him that I and my children are to be taken to Rome
as your prisoners. I ask that you allow my women access to my full wardrobe so that I shall not disappoint the Roman populace
with my appearance. In addition, my health is so improving that I wish for full meals, prepared by my staff in the manner
that they know I like, to be sent to me three times a day. I do not wish to relapse on the long voyage and die ignobly en
route in a strange land or at sea. By the way, it would be extremely generous of you to allow me to make one final visit to
the tomb of Marcus Antonius, as Fate in her wisdom has now decided that those who vowed to always be together shall be separated
for all time.

Thank you for your attention to these small matters.

She signs the letter with a grand flourish, laughing so hard that her chest rattles and she begins to cough.

“Despite your intentions, Kleopatra, you
are
going to kill yourself if you do not stop this nonsense.”

Kleopatra brushes off Charmion’s worries. She opens the door and hands the letter to the guard. “See that the general gets
this immediately.” She hopes her smile and the levity that has returned to her voice does not raise his suspicions.

Swift, brutal action is the most expedient way to success. Julius Caesar had taught him that, and he wonders now what his
uncle would have thought of him turning his own cruel philosophy on Caesar’s alleged son. Ah well. Perhaps Caesar would have
been so incensed at how far Kleopatra was willing to carry the ruse of the boy’s paternity that he, from his Olympian vista,
is smiling down upon Octavian for putting an end to it once and for all.

He had been left with no choice, he reflects as he surveys the riches confiscated when Little Caesar’s party was intercepted
in the desert. When the solution is simple and obvious, why debate the ethics or the means? He has silenced the solicitous
Arius, who cannot stop talking about what was done, as if he believes that each detail he furnishes will put another gem or
coin in his pocket. Octavian does not wish to burden himself with an itemized account of the assassination; suffice it to
say that the insignia ring and the money and the eyewitness chronicle of Rhodon, who under Arius’s supervision would know
better than to lie, is proof enough that only one Caesar remains upon this planet. The account of the death of the other boy,
Antyllus, whom he knows personally, causes a tear to fall, just as he had shed one for Antyllus’s father in a moment of uncharacteristic
sentimentality. It is not remorse or sadness or grief or even guilt that make the tears well up at these times. It is the
realization that all life, even his own, is temporal. The strange notion that a life can be taken so easily, and that this
power is available to anyone who is willing to seize it. Why more do not exercise this ability is beyond him. Why these philosophers,
Arius and Rhodon, do not right now strike him down and make off with all this gold before them is a mystery to him. Perhaps,
as Caesar used to say, some men eschew
leadership. Some men, most men, are simply happier to follow a man who will make those unhappy decisions and take responsibility
for them.

But a man must also exercise caution. The case might be made that Caesarion and Antyllus were of a dangerous age-an age when
Alexander was already at war on behalf of his father’s kingdom, subduing tribes that the king had yet to conquer. He saw the
boy Antyllus when he came with Antony’s offer; saw how the boy already carried Antony’s square jaw and puffed-up chest and
long straight nose-and arrogant attitude. Octavia would have to forgive him that one.

Everyone henceforth would have to get used to forgiving his actions because, well, they will have to. At any rate, surely
such boys-scions of Caesar and Antony; sons of the celebrated lover of those men-would have united against him and caused
another episode in Rome’s continuing civil wars, the wars Octavian now claimed to have ended forever. Surely the assassinations
will be interpreted as necessary politics-as-usual. He has found that if one simply acts and offers no explanations and no
remorse, those who surround one will quickly come up with reasons in one’s own defense. See how Arius and Rhodon are doing
this right now, words tumbling together as they offer how Octavian has acted wisely, and listing all the reasons why. He is
tempted to put to them the question of the little ones, but that is against his philosophy. He will decide their Fates and
then act without seeking outside advice. But he does not think he will be able to satisfactorily explain the deaths of small
children, even to himself. Well, those he would take back to Rome with him where he might keep an eye on them. What could
be the harm? The twins were not yet nine years old.

Octavian dismisses the two philosophers because he is weary of them waiting around for additional rewards for betraying their
charges. He has given them money and their lives. Can they not see that despite the fact that he demanded the betrayal, he
also has disgust for the betrayers? He slips a few more coins into each flat and eager palm and sends them off.

Left alone with these magnificent additions to his personal trove, he tries the insignia ring on his index finger. It is tinged
with something that he thinks might be blood, but it is easily wiped away with a stroke of his cloak. The ring is too small.
Little Caesar must have inherited his
father’s thinness; or, if he correctly gauges Kleopatra’s cunning, inherited the thinness of the person with whom Kleopatra
copulated, selected for his keen resemblance to Caesar. She would have thought the entire scheme through, he is sure. The
ring does fit nicely on the little finger, and that is where he will wear it for a while. It is heavy gold and engraved with
the eagle of the Ptolemies, that beast who hangs over almost every room in the palace. It is so like the eagle that flies
on the Roman standards, and he wonders if this is just a coincidence. At any rate, it is a convenience, a symbolic bridge
from Greek to Roman rule. A sign from the gods that Egypt has always been destined for his command.

He plucks the prize from the lush landscape of glittering treasure, gingerly at first, holding it between the thumb and index
fingers of both hands. It is lighter than he anticipated, and he laughs at how hard he was prepared to try to lift it. In
the end, it is effortless. He turns it so that his eyes meet the emerald eyes of the cobra-inscrutable, defiant. He pets the
inflated chest of this asp, this symbol of pharaonic power, making slow friends with it, running his finger over the diamond-shaped
scales, tapping its pointy tongue. He places the diadem on his head. How well it fits. It seems the sons of Caesar are the
same circumference at the head. Poor Julius! Stabbed so viciously by his countrymen for wishing to wear this very crown. Ahead
of his time. Sometimes, it is left to the younger generation to fulfill the ambitions of the elder. Sometimes, it simply took
a different sort of man to accomplish the deed.