Pharaoh (9 page)

She had no orders to give. Inertia simply did not suit her, and yet it would not be intelligent to take action independent
of Caesar. Would the rest of her life be like this? Was she just another useless Ptolemy hanging on to her throne by playing
the suppliant to Rome?

The child, she
realized,
was the only means by which she might escape the Fate of her ancestors. It was the solution she had prayed for all those
years ago at the feet of Artemis of Ephesus, when she-fourteen years old and a lover of small animals-had slit the throat
of the lamb with her own hands and watched its blood run like a red river into the sacrificial bowl. She had sworn before
the goddess to be different from her degraded ancestors, and now Artemis, virgin goddess of the hunt, the very one who had
rendered a man blind for simply looking at her naked body, had not begrudged Kleopatra the pleasures of sex but had gifted
her with pregnancy.
The gods are good to those who serve them.
She heard the voice of her father in her head and felt a chill run through her body-the sign that his spirit was still with
her.

She had told Caesar nothing of her suspicions, which were now confirmed by the fact that two months had come and gone without
her shedding so much as a drop of blood. One night, in the elation over the destruction of the Egyptian navy and the reclaiming
of Pharos Island, she and Caesar had made love in a great burst of fury, faster and with more heat than they had done before,
though that was the very day that Caesar had swum a long distance in his full armor. Yet he seemed younger and less fatigued
than ever. She hoped that vigorous sex did not harm the unborn, but there was no one she might ask without arousing suspicions.
One word from her on the subject and there would be a chain of gossip from one end of the besieged palace to another, as if
the details of her love affair were not enough fodder to keep that machinery in constant operation day and night. She knew
that most of her subjects did not understand her reasoning in the affair, but she held the faith that someday soon, she would
stand before them and explain to them what she had done on their behalf and for their futures.

After their lovemaking, Caesar had lain on his back, eyes closed, recovering from what was surely the last task in his long
and demanding day. Kleopatra had snuggled to his side, wrapping an arm around his chest so that his underarm hairs tickled
her chin. Another remarkable thing about Caesar-he had no disagreeable body odor. He used only the most delicately scented
oil, one that would not have disguised the masculine effluvium. Though he had exerted himself in pleasure, and though she
had a nose like a tiger, Kleopatra could detect only the faint
aroma of myrrh on his body. Was this yet another of the ways that the gods had blessed him?

“In a few days I shall leave you.”

He did not open his eyes to deliver this news. Kleopatra was afraid to sit up. She refrained from tightening her grip around
his chest.

“Oh?” She wondered if she sounded authentically curious, or if the shock and desperation she felt infiltrated her tone.

“I’ve received word that Mithridates of Pergamum is marching toward us from the east with the Jewish legion. They say Antipater
is escorting the high priest of Judaea himself. I must go to meet them.”

“I see,” she said. “Will you be coming back?”

He opened his eyes and looked at her. “Darling,” he said. And then he chuckled.

“Perhaps I am becoming too much trouble,” Kleopatra said. “Perhaps it would be easier to leave me to face my sister’s army
on my own.” She despised the anxiety that had crept into her normally confident tone. I sound like some pathetic courtesan,
she thought. Is this what pregnancy did to women? If so, she would never do it again.

“I’m leaving a small garrison here to protect you. I’ll be back in a matter of days if all goes well.”

“What is your plan?”

“You’ll have to trust me, my darling,” he said, kissing her forehead.

“If Arsinoe has me killed, will you call an end to the war and support her as queen?” she asked, feeling bile rising into
her throat.

He did not respond, but exuded exasperation without uttering a word or a sigh.

“It would certainly be an easier solution than maintaining a war machine,” she said.

Was this the time to tell him about his son?

“Kleopatra, you are so dramatic these days. What is wrong with you? I believe you are proving Aristotle’s claim that a woman
is irrational and incapable of reason.”

“Men are rendered irrational in the presence of women and falsely conclude that it is the female who is irrational,” she retorted
quickly. She had not spoken to Caesar this way in months, and she wondered if he had grown lax in his treatment of her. Did
he mean to treat the queen of Egypt as an ordinary mistress?

“Nonetheless, you are not yourself. What is the matter?”

“I believe it has to do with my condition. They say it causes a woman’s humors to descend and her emotions to rise.”

“Are you ill, my child?” he asked, and she wondered if he contrived the worried look on his face. “Should I be concerned?”

“Not unless one considers carrying the child of Julius Caesar a cause for alarm.”

“I do not consider it so,” he said evenly, no change in his calm expression. She waited, but he said no more.

“Have you nothing further to say on the matter? Are you not even surprised? Do we mean nothing to you?”

“I have known for some time, Kleopatra. You can keep nothing from me.”

“Why is that? Are you all-knowing like the gods?” She wanted to antagonize him. If he did not commit to one emotion or another
she would go mad.

“I have lived two and one-half times longer than you, dear girl. There is nothing I haven’t seen. I have thought your thoughts.
And if I have not, I have observed others thinking them. But no matter. You need not surprise me to please me.”

“Are you pleased?” She held her breath, trying not to look at him in anticipation. Unable to resist, she shot him as cold
a glance as she could summon, but inside, her stomach churned. She hoped her anxiety was not harming their child.

“What man would not be pleased?” he asked. He sat up a little, turned on his side, and held out his long arms, waiting for
her to sink into his chest. When he wrapped his arms around her, she felt him shudder.

“You are unhappy.”

“I am thinking of Julia,” he said. He looked away, but she could see that his eyes were watery. “If she and her son had lived-my
grandson- Pompey would not have come to such a humiliating end.”

“Then let
our
son be that force for unity,” she said, and she hoped that she did not sound as if she were pleading.

He said nothing, but continued to hold her to his chest.

“Think on the meaning of it, my love,” she said. “Think of what he might represent to the world.”

“I have considered all that,” he replied with none of the rapture that reflected her own thoughts. “But it will not be so
easy as you think. You do not know the obstacles that await you in my country. They won’t take it well.”

“Opinion can be changed.”

“Ah, but not so laws.”

“Laws are made by mortals. You have passed enough interesting legislation to know that,” she said.

“I must go to sleep now,” he whispered in her ear.

“Shall I have an artist sketch your likeness so that I may someday show it to our son?” She allowed a bit of coyness to invade
her question.

“You must learn to eradicate doubt, Kleopatra, or you shall not make a good mother to our boy.”

“May I still not know your plan?”

“Now more than ever, it is crucial that you do not. But mark the words of Caesar. By this time next week, we shall be rid
of at least a few of our most pressing problems.”

He drifted off to sleep, leaving her vulnerable, ignorant of what he would do next, and praying to the gods that she had not
been a naive girl all along, believing the tender words of an inveterate diplomat and seducer.

She did not sleep that night, or the next, or the next. She lay awake stroking her stomach and praying to the goddess. After
Caesar had gone, she roused the priest in the middle of the night, and had him make a small sacrifice. Alarmed at her urgency
and groggy with sleep, the priest had his attendants light the torches in the temple and bring in a small goat. Its entrails
were the image of good health, he assured her, and so Her Majesty’s intentions were honored by the goddess.

Kleopatra tried to be consoled by this analysis, but she had never felt so alone. Her supporters and Charmion were trapped
behind enemy lines. She was entirely dependent upon Caesar’s goodwill and authority, and besides his cryptic word and his
good but implacable humor, she had no solid assurance that she might rely on him. His men might as easily murder her in her
bed as protect her if her sister’s soldiers burst through the barricades and into the palace. Why should they stop an assault
on her? Some would consider it a service to Rome to slay
Caesar’s foreign mistress-especially if it were known that she was carrying his child. If Caesar had already guessed, others
may have, too.

She passed the rest of the night with her hands on her stomach talking to the boy, calling him young Caesar, telling him her
plans for his future, who his mother was, who his father was, his ancestors. She recounted tales of Alexander, from his boyhood
through his conquests of kingdoms and nations. From the library she sent for a copy of the story of Alexander hunting the
lion and read it to her unborn child.

“Alexander’s father, too, was a great warrior, but never forget that Alexander surpassed him in achievements. So might you,
difficult as it may be for your tiny self to apprehend. And Alexander’s mother struck fear in the hearts of men, as apparently
your own mother has done to her own brothers and those who advise them. And I shall do so even more and with greater ferocity
when you are a grown man and rule at my side.” Kleopatra smiled at the thought of inspiring fear in men. Roman soldiers thought
they held dominion over everything, including the sowing of fear in the hearts of others. “They may have to share their domain
with us,” she said, hoping her son already had a sense of humor, of irony, that would put him in good stead with his father.
“And do not forget, Alexander’s detractors said the same awful things about him that they say of your father, that he was
mad for power and that he ruled Fortune. Those were the jealous Greeks, the Spartans and Athenians who had to abdicate their
power to the greater man. Those on the decline always criticize those on the rise.” She promised to take him to Alexander’s
tomb and get his blessing as soon as he was old enough to be taken out of the palace. She hoped his little spirit was ready
to take on the weight of his earthly mission.
If the philosopher is correct, and all knowledge is but remembering what the soul already knows, then you must come into this
life with full memory of all that has gone before you.

She calmed herself this way, communicating with her son so easily that she was certain his soul was present with her in the
room, until finally, her aloneness and her fears were lifted. She thought that she might be a fine mother, one with the power
to inspire greatness in her offspring, for what else might be the purpose of a queen who out of necessity would pass along
her throne? She patted her stomach until she believed she had calmed the child as well as herself, and then she drifted off
to sleep as the vaporous light of dawn floated lazily into the room.

Days later, Caesar burst into their chamber with the news that her brother was drowned, Ganymedes dead, and her sister in
chains. Caesar had outfoxed Ganymedes, of course. He had made a great show of sailing out of the city with his legions to
join Mithridates. He did meet up with the reinforcements, but in the middle of the night, when the Egyptian army was deep
in slumber, they sneaked back through the western gate, taking them by surprise and easily vanquishing them.

Caesar smiled more broadly than ever before. Kleopatra’s first thought was not
thank the gods,
but rather,
now I shall owe Caesar everything.

Unless the gift of a son was equal in his mind to the gift of a throne.

Arsinoe looked at her brother’s death mask and felt nothing. The artist had improved his features, making him appear a bit
thinner and more secure than he had ever looked in his short lifetime; nonetheless, there was nothing to miss in that round
and vapid face. Never again would she have to see the ridiculous expressions he made as he reached for his pathetic moment
of ecstasy. The awful contortions of an already disgusting face. The moaning and groaning as he struggled with something inside
himself, or so it seemed, struggled against his own horrible pleasure. And then the inevitable mess at the end. She would
never have to do that again, which was the thought she had held firmly in her mind as she and Ganymedes had forced her brother
and his men into the boat that would take them on the long trip down the Nile; that was, if they made it, what with human
cargo twice the weight the vessel could support. Either way they would have perished-by the hands of the Egyptians who would
be furious at the king who had capitulated to the Romans, or by nature herself as she dragged them to the river bottom.