Pharaoh

  She did not stop to make a small sacrifice at the temple of Isis to give thanks for her safe return, or, once at the palace, pay a visit to the state bedroom that she had missed so much in Rome, but went directly with Hephaestion to the room where the two of them had so often met to conduct government business. Hephaestion dismissed all scribes and attendants at the door and ushered her in. She sat in her usual chair with a cushion over the seat and golden arms like lions’ paws stretched out in repose. Hephaestion took a small metal tool out of a black box on his desk, and with it loosened one of the stones in the wall. Carefully he pulled out the stone and placed it on the floor. He reached inside the empty space and produced a packet of letters.

  “Is all this secrecy really necessary?” she asked. She was exhausted and lightheaded. Her body still felt the rhythm of the sea, and she pressed her feet firmly against the tile floor to try to accustom herself to land. She was hungry, too, and longed for a hot bath in her private quarters. She could almost feel the warm water engulf her; her mind sank into a reverie imagining that pleasure. Hephaestion spread the letters on the desk in front of her, but instead of reading them, she closed her eyes. “Must I read these now?” Her eyes stung from too many days of the whipping sea winds and from too little sleep aboard the undulating vessel.

  “I will tell you their contents. These missives are the correspondence between Princess Arsinoe, who calls herself queen of Egypt, and the king. They have been slipping by our censors thanks to the treachery of a servant to the Royal Candlemaker, whose sister was body servant to the princess in her captivity in Rome. A system of delivery was established even from Ephesus, where the princess is supposed to be under Roman watch. Clearly, she has found co-conspirators among her guard.”

  Kleopatra could only imagine the methods her beautiful sister employed to induce her captors to do her will, techniques perfected in the bedroom of her younger brother, whom she manipulated all his days. Would she never be rid of her sister’s insidious sway?

  “Princess Arsinoe has been sending envoys to the Roman army here in Alexandria to rise up against you, Your Majesty, and take the city back for her.”

  Kleopatra scoffed. “Does the fool think the men of Julius Caesar would so swiftly betray their commander?”

  “Some of them are mercenaries gathered from Pompey’s former eastern provinces, less interested in the glory of Rome than in gold. She made quite a few inroads with those men. She wrote passionate decrees promising money, land, citizenship, and marriage to Alexandrian wives for their cooperation. She was able to get the letters directly into the hands of their leaders.”

  Kleopatra shook her head. “Even in captivity, she still insists she is queen.” She rubbed her ears as the masseuse had shown her to do to manifest vigor, letting her fingers work down her neck and into her rock-tight shoulders. “And so we are on the verge of another rebellion? Is that why you called me back here? What is going on, Hephaestion? Why did you have me say that my brother has contracted a plague? Why not just say he is a traitor?”

  “It is not entirely untrue that he has manifested signs of the disease.”

  He had chosen his words carefully, but Hephaestion was a careful man. She did not like this state of semi-knowledge in which he seemed determined to keep her. He was not a conniver or intriguer like so many of his kind who had served the Ptolemaic dynasty, and never had he grabbed for power beyond the limits of his office. But he had a eunuch’s unadulterated loyalty as well as the uncanny ability to mastermind. This was not the first time he was one step ahead of her, but she was sure that whatever puzzle he was putting together was for her well-being. He had proved himself a thousand times over, risking his own life to safely get her out of Alexandria when her brother’s regime had made her a prisoner in the palace, and then serving her loyally in exile, even when her funds ran out.

  “Why did you call me and my son back into a plague-ridden community?” She knew she sounded suspicious of him. “But wait, I saw no warning flags at the harbor and no hospital wagons in the streets. What in the name of the gods is going on?”

  “There were signs of the plague a few months ago, but it has been safely contained by quarantine.” Hephaestion fished through the letters, found the one he wanted, and put it in front of her to read. It was written by her brother, the present king, to a Roman lieutenant promising him one thousand talents and an estate near the Fayum if he could convince his troops to betray the orders of Julius Caesar and allow Arsinoe to enter the city. Kleopatra read: ”’Arrangements have already been made with your comrades in Ephesus. The True Queen of Egypt needs only a word from you to return to her home.’”

  “Here is another you will find of particular interest. After the can-dlemaker turned in his servant, we began to intercept the correspondence of the Roman soldiers. This is a letter from a Roman officer offering on behalf of a ’high-ranking Egyptian official one thousand talents for the assassin who is able to dispense with Kleopatra of Egypt and her son, residing in the city of Rome while she conspires for its destruction.’

  “I have no way of gauging what their chances of success may have been had we not uncovered their plots.”

  “What ordinary man would not risk all for a chance at one thousand talents?” Kleopatra said. “That is more than sits in the treasury of most city governments. But which one is to blame here? Is my brother merely Arsinoe’s puppet? Or does he have a mind of his own?”

  “He is the age his older brother was when he raised an army against you.”

  Kleopatra picked up the letter again. It was chilling to read the call for one’s own death. She put the letter down and sat back exhausted and numb, as if perhaps she were in fact dead and this bizarre meeting was a dream she was having about the living.

  “Your Royal Grace, do you remember the advice I gave you so long ago after your father died and we had to take drastic measures to secure your position?”

  “You said: In matters of state, let your blood run cold. I have never forgotten it.”

  “Have you found it wise advice?”

  “More wise than I would like it to be.”

  Hephaestion knelt before Kleopatra, his face as still as a death mask. “I beg your forgiveness for what I have done in your absence.”

  “Prime Minister, please get up. I am far too tired for these kinds of dramatics. This is so very unlike you.”

  “Egypt cannot tolerate another war of Ptolemy against Ptolemy.”

  “My alliance with Rome was intended to prevent that possibility.”

  “But as we have now seen, nothing will stop Arsinoe from trying to usurp. And the king is her finest local instrument.”

  “But you say he is ill?”

  “He is ill because I have caused it. The alchemist who makes youth potions for my mother confided to me that he had discovered a poison that could produce the same effects as the plague. I had been praying to the gods for a way to quietly dispose of the king, and then this! I took it as a sign. There was plague in the city and a warning had already been issued. I knew that no one would be suspected if the king took ill. And so I have had him fed the substance in his food. I can have it stopped if you wish, though I strongly advise against it.”

  “But what of my sister? She is the true instigator.”

  “At your command, I will arrange to deliver the same goods to the princess Arsinoe,” he said. “She is not the only one with connections in Ephesus.”

  Royal Announcements issued on this fifth day of April in the Seven Hundred Thirty-fourth year from the First Olympiad, and in the Eighth year of the reign of Queen Kleopatra VII, Theas Philopater, Neos Isis, daughter of Amon-Ra, Pharaoh of the Two Lands of Egypt Descended of King Ptolemy I and Queen Berenike I Soter the Savior Gods; Ptolemy II Philadelphus and Arsinoe II, Brother and Sister Gods and Ptolemy III and Berenike II the Benefactor Gods who conferred bountiful blessings upon the people; of Ptolemy IV Philopater and Arsinoe III, of Ptolemy V Epiphanes and Kleopatra I, Gods Manifest; of Ptolemy VI P
hilomater, Ptolemy VIII Euergetes and Kleopatra II; granddaughter of Ptolemy XI Soter; daughter of Ptolemy XII Theos Philopater Neos Dionysus Neos Osiris and Kleopatra V Tryphaena. Upon this land the Royal House of Lagid bestows many benefactions. To the citizens of Alexandria and its Jewish residents:

  Queen Kleopatra is returned from the city of Rome where she renewed the sacred title conferred upon her by the Roman Senate, Friend and Ally of the Roman People. Owing to the Queens Majesty and Beneficence and Influence, the Roman people have regained the right to worship the goddess Isis and the god Dionysus. All Hail Queen Kleopatra, who has restored piety to the people of Rome.

  Queen Kleopatra invites you to join her in honoring the memory of the late King Ptolemy XIV, who has been called to ascend to the gods, for games and theatrical performances in the Caesareum on the 20th day of April commencing at high noon and ending at sunset. All citizens and Jewish residents are encouraged to attend.

  Honors will be paid to King Ptolemy XV Caesar, Philopater and Philomater, son and co-regent of Kleopatra VII of the Royal House of Lagid and Gaius Julius Caesar, Dictator of Rome, descended of the Julii Caesarians of Italy and the Greek hero Aeneas, Founder of the city of Rome and son of Aphrodite.

  By invitation of the queen, the finest and most accomplished athletes, musicians, and tragedians from all over the world will perform and compete. Prizes will be awarded to the winners.

  All Hail Queen Kleopatra who with the blessings of the gods makes all things possible!

  The city of Narbo in Gaul: the 6th year of Kleopatra’s reign

  Caesar had trouble remembering if he had just won his three hundred fourth or three hundred fifth victory. His mind, so fine for detail, was growing ever more fuzzy. In Spain, though he had subdued Pompey’s sons and their legions, he frequently forgot precisely against whom he was fighting. He just continued to fight, commanding his men without overreliance on the intellect. It was one’s instincts that served one well in battle. But the battles-blood splattering the faces of his men; loose limbs dangling so pathetically from the bodies of the unfortunate; futile cries of pain, even more futile prayers to the gods yelped with one’s last breath; gorgeous horses who had served so valiantly falling over their own legs and trampling the object of their loyalty- these scenarios were indistinguishable from any other battles he had ever fought.

  There was one difference in Spain. She had come to him in the midst of battle and told him to relax his sword and follow her away from the ruckus. He felt the noise around him disappear as if he had gone completely deaf. He saw men’s mouths agape in fury, in pain, but he heard nothing. Suddenly, the world had all the hush of an early morning snow in the Alpine mountains. He followed the unearthly presence through the silent tableau of battle and back toward camp. She looked so beautiful, her skin dewy, her cheeks pink, her blue eyes gleaming. Her body was draped in the thinnest weave of fabric, luminous in the late after noon sun that rushed through newly sprouted leaves of thick-trunk trees, lighting her body through the dress. She was Spring itself, he thought, and as she looked back at him urging him to follow her form-the quintessential woman’s body with its soft curves and high formidable breasts and long bare feet with sloping arches that he would like to tickle-he did not know if she was leading him away from battle because he had died or because she wished to seduce him. In the act of dismounting his hot, perspiring horse, he reached for her waist, and she evaporated like smoke as he tried to encircle her. The next thing he knew, he was in his tent, and a doctor with a face like a curious crab was squinting down at him, informing him that one of his men had found him fallen from his horse, unconscious.

  Why had she not simply taken him at that moment? He would happily have left his body in the forest and disappeared in her arms.

  He recovered, as he always did, remaining in Spain to clean up the inevitable mess of a provincial government changing hands. He settled all court cases, punished war criminals, forgave the remorseful, set up a new tax system, sifted through bribes to make all the proper appointments, collected the expected tribute, and now was on his way home.

  He had done it again, pulled off yet another victory, and by now, so many senators had joined his cause-oh, out of fear, he realized, but still it was nice to see one’s foes diminish in number. A large party of them had taken the trouble to meet him in the coastal city of Narbo to heap yet more honors upon him, as if waiting for him to reenter Rome would have been an insult. They named him Dictator for Life, giving him the power to appoint consuls, censors, tribunes. He was also supreme lord over the empire’s finances and would henceforth appoint all its governors and highest provincial officers. It was declared that forevermore, Caesar would sit in a gilded chair whenever he received officials. What was next? he wondered. Were they-despite all the talk about preserving the old Republic-actually going to ask him to be king? Oh, that would kill Cicero, wouldn’t it? And what posthumous suffering it would cause the soul of Cato, who would never rest for all eternity should Caesar wear a crown in the city.

  But they did not mention naming him king, at least not yet. Caesar’s guess was that this greeting party wished to secure their positions in his government-and secure their share of the loot from Spain-before the other senators and knights took their shares. He was not surprised to see Gaius Trebonius, whom he should have had executed for his execrable show as governor of Farther Gaul. Trebonius was not the only man who showed up to save his head. Indeed, as they stood in the sand, Caesar looked at the tops of many a suppliant head that had once conspired to do him wrong.

  But here was Marcus Antonius, too, who had made the journey in a chariot, of all vehicles, and who leapt from it like an Olympic athlete and turned on every bit of his considerable charm when he saw Caesar’s carriage. Antony looked so humble, his head lowered so that he smiled with his eyes. Then he walked toward Caesar, making a speech about Caesar’s many accomplishments, his big arms swinging as he articulated each syllable as he was wont to do in his flashy Greek style of oratory. Everything about Antony was gleaming on this auspiciously sunny day-eyes, teeth, words, skin. Even the air about him seemed to sizzle with a barely visible shimmer of energy. Caesar was unsure if he was about to slip into another spell, and when the two men were just a few feet apart, he virtually fell into Antony’s arms, which everyone took as a sign of reconciliation, particularly Antony, who hugged Caesar so tightly that he worried he would collapse his lungs.

  “Praise the gods, Caesar, I am your son again,” Antony whispered in his ear. And Caesar was comforted by that sentiment, because he knew that when he returned to Rome he would need all the filial affection from men of power that he could muster. There would be fewer friendly faces in Rome than here at Narbo, and Antony was the man to help meet those who groused over Caesar’s extraordinary new powers. Antony was just the sort of son a dictator required, a son whose courage and golden words could turn the most cowardly soldiers into brave hearts ready to face the grimmest tasks.

  “The senate has taken an oath to protect you, Caesar,” Antony announced. “For all know that your health and wellness are the very anima of the empire. Even those who once called themselves your enemies are now sworn to give daily thanks to the gods for your very existence.”

  Caesar invited Antony to ride back with him in his carriage, which forced his nephew Octavian to ride in a second coach. He thought he saw the boy wince, but surely he understood that Antony’s seniority entitled him to enter Rome side by side with the dictator. The sulking pride was the characteristic that worried him about his nephew-that and his rather frail health, but that was no matter, because Caesar himself had proven that one might be thin and pale in youth and yet grow into a man of power. Had he not bemoaned to his friends at the age of thirty that he had done so very little with his life, whereas Alexander by that age had conquered much of the world? The boy was merely a late bloomer like himself He attributed the sulking to his age, sixteen, when a boy so desperately wished to be a man, and was either enthralled or i
ntimidated by those like Antony who embodied male strength. He thought thrall a little healthier than the jealousy he saw flash across Octavian’s face. The boy had yet to fight a battle and yet Caesar had heaped all sorts of honors upon him. Now Caesar was sending him directly back to school in Apollonia where he might learn a thing or two. In the meantime, what more did he want?

  After so many years of being without an heir, suddenly he was rich in sons. Antony, Brutus, Octavian. But they were sons with agendas and ulterior motives. And yet the son of his blood, the little blue-eyed boy, he could not recognize because of Rome’s laws. Perhaps he would change all that if he had the time. If the gods wished it. He was a little tired of pushing the gods to his favor. He felt that after all he had done, they should grant him ease. He was ready for some personal reward. In Spain he had thought he had been given some of that in the favors of Queen Eunoe, the lusty wife of the Mauretanian king who had so helped him with his Spanish operations. But she was like so many other lovers-eager to betray her aging husband with another older man who was more powerful and whose patronage she sought. Caesar thought he could hear her mental machinery churning away while he was on top of her. Human beings were so entirely predictable. Only one had the ability to surprise him still in ways that pleased. He hoped his messengers did not delay in getting his letter to Kleopatra. He did not want to reenter Rome without knowing that hers was one of the first faces he would see.

  Rome: the 7th year of Kleopatra’s reign

  It seems like only yesterday that I was in Alexandria,” Antony said, sweeping his toga behind him with his bare, beautiful arm and bowing. “And yet that cannot be so, for Time has worked its enchantment upon the young princess I met in there and has turned her into a most majestic example of the womanly sex.”