Pharaoh (60 page)

Iras tells her that whoever is bitten by the cobra goes directly to the gods, for the snake carries an immortal elixir. The
cobra, the reptile whose face rises above the Egyptian crown, has protected Pharaoh for thousands of years. When the Egyptian
people hear of the means by which the queen has gone to the gods, they will know that she has not died, but taken her place
among the immortals.

Kleopatra warily eyes the baskets that contain the asps. “You do not have to join me,” she says. “This is my voyage, my Fate.”

Charmion merely shakes her head. Iras says, “Do you think I will let my queen meet the gods with unkempt hair and a rumpled
gown? I am going to the gods with you as your divine dresser.”

Charmion takes her hand. “We are many years past words, Kleopatra. You have been my life here on earth, and I am yours in
death. It is a promise I made to the king.”

“My father?” she asks.

“I made the vow to two kings, your father, and the Imperator,” Charmion replies. “It was his final request to me. ’Keep her
safe until we meet again.’ I am to deliver you to him or be haunted by his angry ghost.”

“I never believed I would have heard you call the Imperator a king.”

“He was because he was deemed so by a great queen.”

Kleopatra cannot believe that this gentle eunuch who runs brushes through her hair so softly, who winds beautiful jewels and
golden pins into her locks with such precision and love, will pick up a long and deadly snake and hold it to their arms. But
he opens the baskets eagerly, carefully removing the garlands that guard their secret.

“How is it that they have not stirred?” Kleopatra asks.

“Fear and cunning keep them dormant until they have a sure strike at their victim.” Iras’s eyes are vibrant, like shiny peanuts
soaked in oil to soften them. He has made up his face impeccably for the occasion, eyes ringed with sleek black lines, cheeks
reddened to a virgins blush. Kleopatra believes he is a little drunk. In recent months, he has worn a coal black hairpiece
to cover the bald spot at the back of his head. Charmion wears the same Greek chiton she has worn since Kleopatra has known
her. She has not had to alter her dress nor her hair nor her cosmetics to suit her age because she has always had the air
of a dignified old woman.

The mausoleum is cool though it is the tenth day of August, a notoriously hot month in Egypt, even by the sea. The morning
light intrudes through the high windows, making a white haze above their heads. Kleopatra lies on the golden couch where Antony
breathed his last. She is tired of words. Every minute she lives might rob one of her children of their lives. “I will say
no more,” she tells Charmion and Iras. “Come and kiss me.”

Iras kneels next to her and puts his head into her bosom as if he were a child. He is trying not to cry, and she tells him
that he is the one who must be brave. He cannot fail her. The stakes are too high. “I love the little ones, too, Your Majesty,”
he weeps into her chest. He pulls his face away and she sees that the black around his eyes has streaked. He intuitively knows
this and wipes his eyes clean with wet thumbs.

Charmion kisses Kleopatra’s cheek. “I shall see you shortly. It is no more than if I left to fetch you a blanket.”

“You have been mother to a motherless child,” Kleopatra whispers to her, suddenly aware that she has never before realized
this, much less thanked Charmion for taking a mother’s role. But Charmion puts her finger on the queen’s lips. “It is enough
to have been near you,” she says. For the first time, Kleopatra feels the full force of Charmion’s love; she has been its
only recipient, a fact and condition she has taken for granted all these years. Kleopatra thinks of all the love that she
has given to men and to children and to the people of Egypt. Charmion has hoarded that watershed of love for Kleopatra alone.

She is floating in this love and crying. She urges Iras to hurry, but

he no longer seems aware of her. He has locked his attention to the creature in the basket. He is utterly still. It seems
that nothing is happening at all, until she sees a hook of an almond-colored head rise out of the basket as if waking up to
its morning. Iras kneels, locking eyes with the creature. Kleopatra wants to close her eyes. She does not want to see what
Iras will do, or if he will be hurt trying to do it, but it is too fascinating a sight, this man and this asp riveted to one
another. Charmion kneels by her side, stiff and still. Iras moves backward, and the snake follows him, rising higher and higher
out of the basket. Kleopatra thinks her heart has already stopped. Charmion takes the queen’s arms and spreads them wide,
just as they had discussed, exposing the vulnerable white flesh. Kleopatra does not want the creature near her face, so they
have decided to let its venom enter her left arm-near the heart so that death will not have far to travel. She knows that
if she screams, if she protests, if she utters a word, she can alter the text of this drama, but she remains silent, waiting.
At some moment of his choosing, Iras reaches forward and takes the snake by its body. It does not lunge at him but allows
itself to be grasped. If it escapes, it will not matter because there are two more snakes in the baskets, each waiting to
take another life.

Iras has the thing securely in his hands now, holding it away from his body and walking toward the queen as if offering some
unholy gift. She tries to take in the features of the snake-the diamond cuts of its skin, the pale gold eyes, the flaring
hood of its neck, the forked tongue. Precisely the likeness she has worn upon her own head for so many years. She tries not
to move though her heart has returned to her body and is beating wildly in her chest. She closes her eyes so that she does
not leap off the couch in some natural instinct to protect her life. She hears Iras’s labored breathing approach. “Yes,” he
says. And she feels a sting in her arm that reminds her of the worst pain she has felt, that of childbirth. There is a searing
in her arm so bad she wishes she might call for a surgeon to cut it off. But she remembers that the last time she felt this
agony she was bringing life into the world. This time, the pain is keeping those she loves in this world and alive. The sting
is unbearable, but she tries to smile just a little. She realizes that her muscles are going numb. She must see the world
one more time. She opens her eyes and meets Charmion’s stare. There are no tears in her
eyes. She is like a butcher, or a priest at the sacrifice, performing his grim task without emotion. Once Kleopatra is dead,
Charmion will be the asp’s next victim, and then Iras will turn the snake on himself, and the three will go to the gods together.
Iras has urged Kleopatra to wait for him so that he can adjust her hair before she meets with any divinities.

“Is this a fitting death for your queen?” Kleopatra asks them.

“Yes,” replies Charmion. “Fitting for a queen who is descended of so many kings.”

She is very tired even though she hurts so badly. She feels Charmion put a silk pillow beneath her neck, straightening her
crown. Fingers place the tendrils of her hair about her face. She is aware of her breathing, and then, no longer aware of
anything at all. She is drifting back to sleep, back to the dream with her father. She sees his face, heavy with concentration
and reverence as he picks up his flute. He puckers his lips, but seeing her, smiles.

Kleopatra. The glory to her father. The glory of Egypt. It is about time that you have come to see me again.

He gives her a look of mock chastisement, and then he puts his big bear lips on his pipe and plays the reedy melody that is
her favorite.

They are in the Royal Reception Room, just the two of them, as they have been so many times waiting for visitors, and his
music fills the room. She sinks deep into her throne, grateful for this stolen time alone with her father, propping her head
on her hand, and letting his glorious melody wash over her, cleansing away all the anxieties of the world and bathing her
in heavenly delight. She is drifting again, so peacefully that she feels as if she is entering a new dream. Suddenly, a fruity,
fine wine is on her lips, waking all her senses, and she hears Antony’s deep laugh, the one that rings out in pleasure and
abandon, and the tinkling of goblets meeting one another in a toast of victory.

After Kleopatra’s death (30 B.C.E.), Octavian surrendered his power to the Roman senate, and they honored him with the name
Augustus (January 27, 29 B.C.E.) which means “the Revered.” He took the new position of First Citizen, and with the skill
of a magician, created the illusion of restoring the old values and forms of the Roman Republic, while garnering sovereign
power and making himself Rome’s first emperor. He ruled in peace until his death in 14 C.E., using Egypt’s confiscated wealth
to rebuild Rome’s infrastructure. He understood Rome’s yearning for their mythical Republican past as well as the impossibility
of its actuality in the face of its enormous empire. If I have been unkind to him herewith, it is only to balance the historical
record, which has been extremely harsh to Kleopatra and to Antony for two thousand years.

Ultimately, history was written, or rewritten, by the winners. As early as 36 B.C.E., Octavian had begun his revision of historical
events and conflicts. The works of Cassius Severus, Titus Labienus, and Timagenes of Alexandria-Octavian’s critics-were destroyed,
along with an estimated two thousand books. We can only guess at their contents, but it is safe to assume that any writings
favorable to either Kleopatra or Antony were eliminated. During Octavian’s reign, court historians such as Nicolaus of Damascus
wrote histories and biographies that lavished praise upon Rome’s new emperor. In fact, Octavian wrote his own autobiography,
fragments of which are preserved. Consequently, Kleopatra’s legacy
comes down to us from the pens of the most grievous enemies of Antony and herself

I find it fascinating that historians inevitably overlook Octavian’s extraordinary acts of cruelty and eagerly proclaim him
a great and benevolent ruler. He did, in fact, force a pregnant Livia to divorce her husband and marry him. Comments are rarely
made on the depravity of this event. He did, in fact, sacrifice hundreds of his fellow Romans after the siege of Perugia.
He reneged on his commitments to Antony. He had Caesarion and Antyllus murdered in cold blood. And later in his life, he banished
his only child, Julia, to exile on a deserted island for committing adultery. She eventually died there of starvation. It
is most interesting that in light of his deeds, Kleopatra is the one who has been marked by history as depraved, coldly ambitious,
and amoral. I believe a psychologist would label this “projection.”

Octavian was not always cruel. After Kleopatra’s death, he took her three younger children back to Rome, where they were raised
by Octavia. Octavian treated them very well, marrying Kleopatra Selene to King Juba, a learned Numidian monarch and ally of
Rome, sending her brothers to live at her court. Selene gave birth to at least one son, but there history loses record of
Kleopatra’s line. Antony’s Roman children continued the family tradition of political prominence, and he was ancestor to several
Roman emperors.

Some historians have made the case that Kleopatra was the true successor and heir to both Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar;
that she and Antony had a more humane and intelligent policy than Octavian and his imperial successors. Her vision of a Graeco-Roman
empire was eventually achieved in the Byzantine empire three hundred years after her death. In any case, Octavian must have
seen the wisdom of their vision, because he kept all of Antony’s policies and appointments in place after Antony’s death,
even while disgracing his memory in Rome. Kleopatra, a great ruler and politician, may have come down to us in history and
myth as a seducer and the downfall of two great Romans, but she was beloved by her own people, and for many hundreds of years,
her reign was considered great. As a famous historian once said, in all its history, Rome deigned to fear two people; one
was Hannibal, the other was a woman.

The knowledge, experience, and intelligence of many people are on the pages of
Kleopatra
and
Pharaoh.
The books arose out of an ongoing conversation with Mikal Gilmore about the ways in which history has portrayed women. He
was there when the idea struck, and his encouragement and support lo these many years have been invaluable. Bruce Feiler took
up the dialogue in Nashville and spent more time talking about Kleopatra, form, structure, and ideas than any man ought to
have been made to do. I am blessed to have his friendship and intellectual camaraderie.

The late Nancy A. Walker of Vanderbilt University guided my research and daily kept me from feeling overwhelmed by its enormity.
She was a prolific scholar, a generous mentor, and a dear friend. Marina Budhos taught me more about the art and the craft
of writing fiction than I knew I had to learn, and in the process, raised the standard and caliber of my writing to a new
level. My daughter, Olivia Fox, provided a perfect role model for an adolescent princess and helped me breathe authenticity
into the young Kleopatra. Professor Susan Ford Wiltshire inspires me always, and she and Dr. Kaye Warren made sure the books
passed historical muster. And I have said before, but herewith reiterate, without my mother’s generosity,
Kleopatra
might
never
have been completed.

Friends patiently read drafts and gave crucial feedback and other needed encouragement: Will Akers, Patsy Bruce, Gilbert Buras,
Cynn Chadwick, Gian DiDonna, Mary Bess Dunn, Keith Fox, Michael Katz, Beverly Keel, Lee Lowrimore, Clarence Machado, Allison
Parker, Cathie Pelletier, Camille Renshaw and
Pifmagazine.com
, Dorothy Rankin, Richard Schexnayder, Molly Secours, Tom Viorikic, Jane Wohl, and Andrea Woods. I would also like to thank
the faculty and students of the Goddard College M.F.A. in Writing program.

Ben Sherwood made the impossible possible. Warren Zide and Jennie Frankel saw the cinematic potential of the books and acted
accordingly. Harley J. Williams, Dawn Weekes Glenn, and Zeke Lopez bring grace and class to entertainment law. Jonathan Hahn
is a publicist who works with heart and soul. I also wish to thank Miriam Parker, Ana Crespo, and Chris Dao at Warner Books,
and especially Jackie Meyers for two gorgeous covers. And, I am very grateful to have Bryan Hickel and Adam Schroeder in my
corner.

These books are in print because of the intelligence and energy of three women. Susanna Einstein acquired the book with great
enthusiasm, and Jackie Joiner has since been its loyal and ebullient supporter. Amy Williams-agent, travel companion, pal-has
the energy of a hurricane, the heart of a lion, and a soul that is dead center in Apollo’s triangle.