“This may be my last day on earth,” she said to Archimedes. The soldiers had set up a tent for her, large enough that she could stand in it. It contained a square table and two folding campaign chairs as well as a large mattress for the queen’s slumber. Charmion, who insisted upon accompanying the war party, had furnished it with quilts against the chill of the desert night. Outside the tent, Kleopatra heard the sounds of soldiers readying for battle, swords being sharpened against rock, armor clanging as it was cleaned and polished, horses neighing softly as they were massaged and oiled to be ready for tomorrow’s encounter.
“There is no reason to believe that we won’t prevail,” Archimedes said. “I cannot monitor exactly what numbers we face, but the scouts estimate that Achillas has stationed six thousand men at the fort. He could draw upon some fifteen thousand more. But that would take days and days. Weeks, actually, by the time he summons them from the provinces. For the moment, the odds are almost even, and we have the gods and all that is right and good on our side.”
“And if we fail?” she asked. She did not wish to think of failure. She repeatedly calmed her fears with the long-ago prediction of the crones, with the dream in which Ptolemy Soter made her an eagle, with the declaration of the priest that the gods were on her side in the war against her brother. It was not that she lacked faith; it was just that her practical side groped for an alternative plan in the event that the battle was lost.
“We will not fail,” he replied.
“I have been conspiring in my head, Cousin. If we lose but survive, I want you to help me finesse this plan. I will obtain an expedient divorce from my brother and offer myself in marriage to a number of eastern kings.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. The king of Pontus. The king of Judaea. I will marry one of them, the one who agrees to join with me against my brother for the Egyptian throne.”
“Cousin, those kingdoms are occupied by Rome. The Romans will not allow a war on Ptolemy. So let us prepare ourselves to win, not to lose”
“Archimedes, I fear you lack a practical nature. I must have an alternative plan. What do you think of my marrying into the royal house of Parthia, or of Bactria? Perhaps such a union might be the beginning of a kingdom larger even than the Roman empire. Perhaps such a union might challenge Rome and prevail,” she said, her eyes wild and her heart racing with the grandiose plan.
“Now we are not merely negotiating with Rome, we are setting about to conquer her? Are you willing to live among the savage Parthians? Kleopatra, I believe you have battle fever. I believe you are going mad”
“What else to do with Pompey against me? How do I know how indebted Pompey might feel to Pothinus for fifty ships and five hundred Gabinian soldiers?” she asked, once again verbalizing the argument she had played out in her head a thousand times. “But if I married myself to a king of great resources, Pompey would have to take our demands seriously.”
“I do not like to hear talk of your marrying some barbarian king,” he said angrily.
“Well it may not come to that. Even if we do not prevail in this battle, even if my brother takes me prisoner, I still might find a way to expose Pothinus’s anti-Roman sentiments to Pompey at the appropriate time. I could probably work through his son Cnaeus, who I believe is rather fond of me.”
“Is he?” Archimedes asked darkly.
“Yes, he is. He attempted to seduce me when he visited the palace.”
“Kleopatra, I have never known you to be naive. Do you think that a man’s immediate sexual desires have anything to do with whom he may choose to support against his father’s wishes? Particularly if his father is the most powerful man on earth? You are a clever young woman, but it is clear that you know nothing of men.
She felt the sharp sting of truth. He was not wrong; the accuracy of his comment hit her hard, flattening the confidence that moments before had begun to surge through her body. Yes, she had probably overestimated her power over Cnaeus. Hopelessness descended over her like a heavy shroud, eradicating any internal powers she had mustered. Had she overestimated her abilities? Was she, a young woman of twenty-one, and not an entirely beautiful one at that, foolish enough to think she could manipulate a man’s desire into a political alliance? Or to think that she, with no military experience, could command an army and prevail?
“Perhaps this night should be spent in prayer and sacrifice to the gods,” she said solemnly. “If this evening is my last, perhaps I should cleanse my soul before meeting the deities.”
“I have a much better idea,” said Archimedes. He pulled her to his chest and twisted his hand into her hair, throwing her neck back and forcing her upturned eyes to look directly into his. “If this evening is to be our last, then let us spend it together as a man and woman should.”
He kissed her. Slowly at first, then with an open mouth, his tongue passing through her lips. Though her mind tried to argue against what she was about to do, her body, weak and tingling, was ready to surrender to his desire. A new feeling enveloped her, a thrilling but disconcerting sensation. She acquiesced completely to his lips and hands, feeling his body grow more tense and insistent. When he let her breathe, she said, very quietly, “This cannot be.”
“Does it not strike you as an appropriate way for a queen, a woman, to spend her final night in mortal form?” he said.
“But I cannot be yours.”
“Considering what may happen tomorrow and what we feel right now, doesn’t that seem like a small concern?”
“But what if we survive? What will become of us then?”
“You cannot be my wife. But Kleopatra, my love, do you really believe the gods wish you to suppress your womanly desires? Do you really believe that the women of your dynasty have pleased themselves with their brother-husbands alone?”
“I do not know,” she said, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks in embarrassment as she remembered Berenike and her tryst with the women who served her.
“Kleopatra, you are so brilliant, but you know so little of human nature. You can be mine in the way that you will never belong to whatever husband you next marry for political expediency. I have waited years for you to become a woman. Can you deny that Fate arranged this attraction long ago?”
“But my father warned against it.”
“And I stayed away from you,” he said. “But when you needed help, I came. As soon as I saw the woman you had become, I knew this was destined. Tell me, did you not feel it, too?”
“If we are to be lovers, we are doomed lovers. One way or another. Whether we die tomorrow or whether we live.”
“Then let us enjoy the moment,” he said, lifting her into his arms as he would a baby. “Have you done this thing before?”
“Only once. I am initiated,” she said nervously as he laid her on the feather mattress. He sat beside her and stroked her body with his right hand, caressing one of her breasts and then the other. How could he do this so blithely, she wondered, when it was strictly forbidden to touch the queen? She understood the reason for the protocol, for to be touched so was to lose oneself, to forget everything—position, country, kingdom. And yet, she did not stop him, but let his fingers pinch her nipple until she arched her back in pleasure, reaching for something that she could not identify but was desperate to have.
She pulled his mouth to hers. It was time for her to know this part of life, to explore this dark cave that housed a beast of whom she had long been aware, but whose turbulent cravings she had staved off in the name of duty. And here was a man who loved her. Who would lay down his life for her the very next day if necessary.
He broke from her. “You are a queen, and someday you shall be a great and magnificent and wise queen, gods be willing. But just now, just for this moment, you are a maiden about to become a woman.”
“Is the experience so transforming?” she asked.
“If done properly,” he said, smiling at her for the first time that evening. “I am at war within myself at this moment
about whether to ravage you the night long or to make love to you gently and then allow you a restful sleep.”
“Be tender with me, Cousin, and save the more savage passions for our enemies. If we are alive and free at this time tomorrow, then you may ravage me the night long.”
It was not the first time he had walked among the dead, but never had he viewed a vanquished enemy who had so forced his hand in war and destruction. He was grateful for his height, for it put him a good distance from the anguished faces of the deceased and the dying, some of whom he recognized.
“This they would have,” Caesar said to Pollio, who walked soberly beside him. “They brought me to this necessity, did they not? After all my attempts at peace? See the dead, Pollio? I would be in their place had I listened to their demands and surrendered my army.”
Caesar sighed, stepping over the body of one of the tall Thessalian soldiers who had been ordered by Pompey to defend his camp while Pompey himself had fled. He looked about at the lavishness of Pompey’s deserted headquarters, at the gold and silver plate that, in grandiosity and optimism, had been placed at the senators’ table. At the finely embroidered linen tablecloths. At the ceramic wineglasses meant for his enemies’ lips. The arrogant fools had thought that they would, by this time of the day, be enjoying their victory feast.
Caesar thought of the hunger and privations his men had endured all year long while the Pompeians lived in this well-stocked camp, enjoying the same opulence that they had in their Roman mansions. He was not one of them. He was not one to bathe in idle luxury. And that is why he was alive and walking over the bodies of the men his enemies had paid to guard their pathetic lives.
He would never allow himself to gloat, but his sympathy for the fellow countrymen he had humiliated and defeated quickly turned to a swell of satisfaction.
“It could not be helped, could it?” he asked Pollio rhetorically. “They asked for it.”
It had been a horrible summer of veritable starvation, playing cat-and-mouse games with Pompey, who had refused to engage in battle. One terribly dry day in August, just when Caesar was sure his men would either murder him for putting them through this or simply desert out of hunger and malaise, one of Caesar’s spies rode furiously into camp and announced that the senators who were encamped with Pompey would no longer put up with his inaction. They were so confident of victory that they insisted Pompey engage and, as the scout said, “finish Caesar off once and for all.”
The scout reported a speech he overheard made by the traitor Labienus, who assured the Pompeians that Caesar’s army was no longer the fighting force that had conquered Gaul, but rather a tired bunch of mercenaries ready to desert at any time. Further, the scout overheard the senators dividing up the spoils they would win in the wake of Caesar’s defeat. The scout said to Caesar, “They squabble over your office on the Via Sacra, sir.”
“Do they?” Caesar had replied, feeling his entire being rise to meet the senators’ premature arrogance.
“Yes, sir. Every senator wishes to be Pontifex Maximus.” To Pollio, Caesar’s officer who was from the highest nobility, the scout reported that three greedy senators were squabbling over who would take his family villa outside the city. “They are fighting over it because of its lavish view of the ocean and its lovely baths that are reported to be the most rejuvenating in the land.”
“Are they so contemptuous of me?” mused Caesar to Pollio. “Even after all these years? After I have demonstrated to them time and again what eventually happens to those who oppose me? Who insult me? We seem to have no alternative but to give them what they wish.”
Later that morning, Caesar saw Pompey’s men descend slowly from their position high atop the hill in Pharsalos—proof that the gluttonous senators had indeed cajoled Pompey into abandoning his logical scheme of letting Caesar’s forces starve to death. Now Caesar would have a shot at full-scale battle. Sensing that this was his most auspicious opportunity, here in the hills where Pompey was completely cut off from his most excellent navy, Caesar immediately arranged his troops in the most advantageous lines, considering their weak numbers. He assigned the terribly diminished Ninth, who had suffered most at Dyrrhachium, to the left flank, under the command of Antony. The young officer’s fierceness in battle and smooth way of speaking could hearten any soldier, could make ten men think they were as strong as an entire legion. The faithful Domitius took the middle, and he, Caesar, commanded the right, where he could fight at the head of the Tenth, the legion for which he held the most affection.
But upon further observation of Pompey’s formations, Caesar realized that Pompey had congregated his entire cavalry on the left, aiming for Caesar’s right. Moreover, Pompey had stationed all of his archers and shooters on the left as well. It became clear to Caesar that Pompey’s plan was to upset Caesar’s right with a barrage of missiles while the cavalry descended upon his rear.
Covertly, Caesar drew six cohorts, one from each of his legions, and formed a separate line. He instructed them to carry the rear of his right. In a moment of what he could only call divine inspiration, he commanded his javelin throwers to aim not at the legs and thighs of the cavalry, but directly at their faces, as a Parthian savage might do.
“It will be death by vanity,” he told his men, who initially scoffed at Caesar’s idea. “We must do something to compensate for their greater numbers. I promise you that these gaily dressed, longhaired prancing soldiers of the horse will be devastated at the thought of scarring their handsome faces and will retreat immediately.” This earned a great roar of laughter from Antony, who was the master of all cavalry strategy, and was all too aware of the great pride such men took in their appearance.
Caesar, as was his custom before battle, singled out one of his best men, the great centurion Caius Crassinius, and asked, “What are our hopes today?” Crassinius looked at his general with a luminescent loyalty entirely in opposition to his fearsome appearance. He said, “We shall conquer today, Caesar, and this day, I will deserve your praises whether at the end I am alive or dead.” Capitalizing on the momentum of Caius’s fervor, Caesar led the charge, taking the grave risk of leaving behind his baggage carts and supply kits, which would mean utter defeat if the confrontation lasted very long.
But it did not. Pompey’s cavalry put up great resistance to Caesar’s initial charge, but soon the six hidden cohorts fell upon the cavalry with a tremendous force, casting their javelins directly at the horsemen’s faces. Caesar’s prediction proved so accurate that in the heat of battle, he let out a loud laugh. The vain cavalry officers realized the method of attack and turned around and fled, leaving a great opening for Caesar to enter and claim the day. Pompey himself was thrown into a state of confusion and made a hasty retreat back to camp, leaving Caesar to wonder if he had taken leave of his senses, for how was such behavior fitting of a Roman general? He, Caesar, would happily have fought to the death with the last of his men rather than scamper off like a scared child.
One of Pompey’s officers appeared to change his mind about the retreat. He circled his horse around. Caesar wondered if the man was going to come over to Caesar’s camp, as soldiers often did when it was clear who had taken the day. But the man did not ride toward Caesar. Instead, he took an unsuspecting Caius Crassinius by surprise and slashed him in the throat. Caesar rushed to his man, who was about to fall back off his horse. He grabbed him by the back of the head, and, looking into his dying eyes, said, “Today you have earned my praises above all men, my friend.”
Now Caesar felt a tear well up in his eye when he thought of Crassinius. He had ordered a special monument to be put up for the faithful centurion, so that generations of men would come to this place and remember his courage. It was a fine gesture, but it was hardly enough. So many had come and gone from Caesar’s service, even though he gave every thought, every ounce of his energy, to protect them.
Pollio interrupted his thoughts. “Sir, the scribes have an estimate on the numbers. I am going to record the
m should you wish to use them in your account of the battle. Apparently, Pompey had us outnumbered two to one. Forty-seven thousand to twenty-two thousand. Antony, who is very good at this sort of thing, agrees with the count.”
Caesar looked about Pompey’s deserted camp. Only slaves and the support staff of a long-drawn-out war were left behind, begging for mercy. Pompey, his army, and what was left of the Roman senate, had scattered to the wind like house dust a peasant throws out her back door.
“Where goes Pompey?” Caesar asked Pollio. “Do we know?”
“He is said to be heading over the foothills to Larissa with about thirty men, and from there, to the shore where his fleet is stationed. Undoubtedly, he will do his usual thing of trying to regroup in some eastern territory.”
“Here are my orders. Let the men know that we waste no time plundering the camp. Fortifications are to be built around the hill by nightfall in the unlikely event of a surprise counterattack. I will divide the men between those who are to remain here, those who will go back to our own camp and ensure its safety, and those who will come with me in pursuit of Pompey and his army.”
Pollio summoned the proper officers to carry out Caesar’s wishes.
“General, we have a special souvenir for you,” said one of the captains. He carried a basket of yellowing scrolls. “Here is the private correspondence of Pompey.” He held the basket out to Caesar, who cocked his head and eyed it but did not take the proffered gift.
“Sir, the private papers of your enemy,” said Pollio. “Surely there are multiple insights in those pages.”
“Burn them,” said Caesar. “Those are the private papers of a gentleman. Burn them right away, I said. And do not take a peek inside them yourselves. Burn every letter.”
“But why, sir?” asked Pollio.
“Because it is the proper thing to do,” said Caesar, nonchalant. He dismissed the officers.