Pharaoh

  She walked now among her rose petals, supervising their placement on the floor, the banqueting tables, the dining couches. Each footstep released more of the flowers’ sweet scent into the room, and once crushed under heavy studded Roman sandals, the smell would become intoxicating. She hoped that the petals distracted from the simple table settings, borrowed from a city official’s kitchen. With a little luck, her guests, inevitably drunk, would not take them home at the end of the meal. She did not wish to slight them, but in truth, she had not foreseen that the feasting and the negotiating would last for days, and she’d already given her guests every plate she’d brought from Egypt. No matter, she thought. It was no time to worry over funds, or over a civil servant’s cheap pottery. The conclusion to these events would have repercussions that could last through her lifetime and that of her son.

  All that I do I do for my son. She said these words to herself as she strolled among the petals. There was no limit to what she would do to secure his life and his kingdom, to see that he grew to manhood and assumed the dual mantle of power endowed upon him as a birthright by his mother and his father. How different Caesarion’s life would be, she thought, remembering the many obstacles she had to surmount to arrive at this moment when she, queen of Egypt, was entertaining the greatest Roman of his day Her father had overcome his illegitimate birth, his seditious wife and daughter, and Rome itself, which had extorted so much money from him that he began to feel it as blood draining from his very veins. He had survived his treasonous family only to have the Romans murder him slowly and treacherously, by bleeding him of his money, his spirit, his dignity. Kleopatra had taken up where her father left off in the family battle for the kingdom. But she had exceeded her father thus far by making an alliance with Caesar that was based on more than the total sum of her treasury. And because she had the foresight to do this, her son would not have to fight the battles she and her father had fought. He would have others, for no monarch of a great nation remained in power without a struggle. But his struggles would serve a higher cause-the unity of the world.

  All that I do, I do for my son, including call for the execution of his cunning aunt. If Arsinoe ever got into power, the first target of her revenge against Kleopatra would be Little Caesar.

  Whatever she must do to ensure Arsinoe’s demise, she must do and do swiftly. The girl had a way of evoking sympathy. She was both smart and conniving. Had she not played her brothers for fools? Had she not captured the hearts of chilly Roman matrons and turned them against Kleopatra? Had she not won the high priest of Ephesus-a man of great sway-over to her cause, so much that he addressed her as queen? If Kleopatra had to go to Antony’s bed prematurely to get him to promise that he would end Arsinoe’s miserable life, then she would do just that. But she must not make a miscalculation. Antony’s men joked about his exploits with Glaphyra, the princess of Cappodocia, who had tried to boost her political position by hopping into Antony’s bed. But apparently, Antony hopped right out of both her bed and her country, having given her no more territory to claim other than the inches from the base to the tip of his organ. Or that was how his men laughed about it.

  Kleopatra was more vulnerable with Antony than with Caesar and she knew it. Not only was Antony’s power not as solid as Caesar’s; the fact remained, Kleopatra wanted Antony in a way that she had never wanted her late lover.

  Antony’s demeanor this evening was different. He was less relaxed than at previous dinners, when he had made long and flowery speeches praising every detail of the banquet, holding up pieces of meat until a cook was summoned from the kitchen to explain every step of their preparation. He would drink goblet after goblet of wine, telling jokes and stories as if he were not the Master of the World on a tour of his empire, but rather a loquacious vagabond who had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do.

  But this evening he merely looked about at the tables of food around which the rose petals were disseminated, and with the briefest nod of approval, sat down and began to eat-not with his previous gusto, but methodically.

  “Is all to your liking, Imperator?” Kleopatra asked, flinching at the insecurity that crept out with her words. Was he tiring of their game?

  “Quite so,” he said perfunctorily.

  “You seem not yourself.”

  “Like you, Your Majesty, I find that I must be not one man but many. My duties are pressing. I shall not long be in your company.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked. She knew that she sounded both surprised and afraid, and she cursed herself for not being able to summon up every morsel of her powers to disguise her emotions. She felt like an insecure girl again, in the days when only a small flame of intuition and the hotter burn of desire told her that she had what it took to be queen.

  “There is incessant trouble in Judaea. I must settle it and confer power upon my allies in that region. There is no present governor of Syria, and I must see to that as well. And, as you know, I must also begin preparations to march on Parthia.”

  He spoke to her as if to a stranger. He had shared with her every detail of his planned attack on Parthia, and she was to play a very definite strategic role in the campaign. Now it was as if they had not had that conversation. What had changed?

  “And when do you leave Tarsus?” she asked.

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “I see. And when do I anticipate your arrival in Alexandria?”

  Antony did not look at her. He put the last piece of quail on his plate in his mouth, dipped his fingers in the water bowl, cleaned his hands with his napkin, and drained his goblet, slamming it down on the table forcefully so that it captured the attention of his men.

  “Dinner is over, gentlemen,” he said. “The queen and I have business to attend to, and so you must forgive us for asking you to take your leave.”

  The men murmured and muttered, but no one was going to challenge Antony’s demand. Kleopatra did not want to give them any cause to think that it was she who had arranged this unceremonious dismissal of their company, so she stood and smiled at them.

  “Gentlemen, please forgive us for putting country and kingdom over pleasure.” She could see the disappointment on their faces-and Roman disappointment always turned to bitter tongues. “As a token of our lovely times together, I wish to make a gift to each of you of the gold dining couch upon which you have lain these many glorious evenings. If you require help in transporting them back to your quarters, my staff is available to serve you.”

  There was great applause at this, and the men excitedly jumped off their couches, examining the details of the curved legs and overstuffed pillows and glimmering silk fabrics as if they had not been lying on them for four nights, but had never seen them before.

  Antony said nothing until they were alone. Kleopatra awaited him, realizing all the while that she was completely unprepared for whatever it was he was going to say.

  Finally, he spoke. “I have seen my way to accommodating the last of your requests.”

  She did not answer him, did not demonstrate a reaction at all, because she did not want him to see how grateful she was.

  “I was thinking of your son, Kleopatra, and of my sons. We must do what we must do to protect our sons. I have come around to see that your sister’s very life endangers your son. And so I will go against my policies of clemency for your sake.”

  “I am grateful to you for it,” she said quietly.

  She looked at him and saw something dark flash across his face.

  “What troubles you, Imperator? Is it the quality of my entertainment?”

  “There is trouble in Rome,” he said. “I’ve just received a very disturbing dispatch from my wife.” Fulvia’s letter informed Antony that while he attended to the business of settling the empire’s eastern territories, his alleged ally, Octavian, was trying to usurp his supporters in the city itself.

  “How is he accomplishing that?” Kleopatra asked.

  “The traditional way. Bribing the soldiers,” Ant
ony replied.

  Fulvia was so concerned about the state of things that she marched her children through the ranks of Antony’s troops, reminding the men that it was Antony to whom they had pledged their loyalty. “She’s in an awkward position. One of the conditions of alliance with Octavian was that he marry Clodia, Fulvia’s daughter by Clodius. Now Fulvia says there is great tension between Octavian and herself, which puts her daughter in jeopardy.”

  “This Octavian? What sort is he?”

  “No one knows, really. He is whatever he needs to be to your face. He probably thought that with me out of the way, he could easily usurp my legions. He didn’t count on Fulvia’s tenacity-or her audacity.”

  “Your wife is quite a woman,” Kleopatra said in what she hoped sounded like a respectful tone. “In other circumstances, she might have been a queen.”

  “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for her,” he said.

  Kleopatra did not know if he was trying to convince himself or her. “I am sure of it,” she replied, wondering if she had miscalculated Antony’s interest in becoming her lover.

  “Do you know why Cicero’s head was displayed in the Forum?”

  “Because he had your stepfather executed on false charges of conspiracy?”

  “I did hold a grudge for a long while over that. He caused my mother no end of financial woes and shame. But that is not the reason.”

  “Because he spoke against you before the senate?” she answered. “I would have executed him myself had he leveled such outrageous accusations against me.”

  “I don’t begrudge him that. Those were merely political speeches. I ordered his body disgraced because he never tired of speaking ill of my wife.”

  “Your loyalty does you credit, Imperator,” she said all too formally, feeling her heart sink. He had negotiated with her, allied with her, and now he would close those negotiations and send her away. He had toyed with her as women so often toy with men, using his charms to strike a favorable deal when he had no intention of satisfying her deeper, personal longings. Now she would be relegated to Friend and Ally of the Roman People, like her father before her. No more; no less. When Antony required something of the Egyptian purse or the Egyptian army or wished to claim a portion of the Egyptian granary to feed his men as they trampled over her land to reach Parthia, he would send a letter of demand to her as he did to any other eastern potentate over whom he held inexorable power.

  “I’m afraid I’ve disappointed her,” he said. “Her letter was quite harsh, and rather sarcastic. She closed it by saying that she hoped that her news wouldn’t disturb the enjoyment of my triumphs on foreign soil.”

  “And will it?” Kleopatra looked him straight in the eye.

  “No, Your Royal Grace, it will not. I have a few more triumphs to make before I leave.” He stood up, scooping her in his arms as if she were a baby, lifting her off the dining couch and holding her close to him.

  She was sure that the stunned look on her face was what provoked his first laugh of the evening. “You’re as light as a feather, Kleopatra. I believe it is only your brain that carries any weight at all.”

  She opened her mouth, either to chastise him for so handling the body of a queen, or to tell him to be discreet, that servants were watching. She had not made up her mind about what she would say. But he covered her lips with his, kissing her hard, blotting out any concerns she might have of observers. Before the dawn’s light, every member of her staff would know anyway. There were no secrets in a queen’s life.

  She opened her mouth wider to take his tongue, sucking on it wildly, as if it gave her nourishment. And it did. It had been so long. She felt like an infant at the breast as she circled his tongue with hers, grasping at it with her lips, sliding it in and out of her hungry mouth. She wrapped her arms tighter around his neck, turning her body into his, greedy for all that was to come. She wanted to lose every thought, every responsibility every worry, in his solid mass of flesh.

  Silently, kissing her all the while, he carried her down the stairs and into her chamber. The body servants crept away like mice when he entered the room, rolling themselves into obsequious balls. He slammed the door shut with his foot and put her down, backing her against a wall, pulling up her dress. At the same time he put his tongue in her mouth, he put his fingers inside her so deep that he lifted her in the air. She wrapped her legs around him, amazed that he could raise her body so high while she pushed down on his hand. He held her against the wall with the strength of his thighs, and before she realized what he was doing, had replaced his fingers with something larger, hotter, harder. She cried into his mouth as he thrust into her, grateful that his lips muffled her sighs to curious ears that might be at her door. He tore at her belt, sending its jewels skittering to the floor, and lifted her dress over her head, leaving her naked and shaking. She clung to his shoulders, letting him enter her, feeling as if she was being slain over and over, and as if the wounds were so sweet that she could not die enough times. Fear seeped into her ecstasy; at some point soon, tonight, within this very hour, this would be over, and life and all its pain and uncertainty would once again creep back in. But for now, she was not Kleopatra but the receptacle of this man’s passion, and she let her own rise up to meet his. She concentrated on her own mounting pleasure, biting into his neck, hugging him harder, letting him go deeper and deeper into her body, like an explorer who was helping her mine the secret gems in the abyss of her own body. His hands were beneath her and he moved her up and down rhythmically as if she were a musical instrument and he the musician, playing her pleasure. It was completely new for her, this surrender. She had been the object of her lovers’ desires, but never had she so thoroughly put her pleasure in a man’s hands.

  When he felt the spasms of her orgasm, he carried her to the bed and put her down like a baby. He removed his own clothes, his penis still huge and jutting at her as he stepped out of his sandals. Little scars covered his chest like a constellation, white and jagged against his tanned brown skin. He was broad at the middle, and she could see where he would be fat in his later years, but now that weight sat on him handsomely, making his large body seem so much more substantial than that of some lithe boy. A gash, badly repaired, shot like a lightning bolt across his left side.

  When he lay beside her she traced it with her fingers.

  “Taken in the service of our Caesar,” he said. He took her fingers and put them in his hot mouth, sucking them gently. “We had some very bad seamstresses in Gaul.”

  “You should have had a Greek doctor,” she said, smiling at him.

  “So much finer than a coarse Roman physician?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Ah, Your Majesty, back to your imperious ways so soon?” He pulled her to him and rolled on top of her, pushing into her quickly, searing her with quick, hot friction. “We must humble you again.”

  Ephesus: the 10th year of Kleopatra’s reign

  Arsinoe did not know where she was going, but she knew she had to leave the temple precinct immediately. The high priest had found out that her death warrant had been signed by the Imperator himself, and there was no escaping it unless she fled in disguise. Where could she go? She was under guard, followed everywhere she went, even to her daily offerings at the temple. She was sure the Romans would have joined her in her prayers if they knew that each day she beseeched the goddess to do away with her sister, the Romans whore. The orders left for her care by Julius Caesar were more compassionate than she would have believed possible from a Roman; she was to be kept under house arrest, but left unharmed. Unharmed. Everyone knew what that meant, even the soldiers who lasciviously eyed her body as they fell behind her wherever she went. They were not to defile her. They wanted to, of course, and she could not imagine why Julius Caesar had given such an order. What had he cared of her safety? He had marched her in chains in his disgusting victory parade. Well, he had shamed himself in the act more than he had humiliated her. She was sure of that. The Roman matrons who v
isited her regularly in prison were horrified that a princess-young, regal, educated, of illustrious lineage-should be paraded like a savage, an animal. She made sure that those tongue-wagging women knew exactly who was responsible for her treatment. Not Caesar. No, she told them, the poor aging general was bewitched by her sister, who worked through the dark nights with conjurers while all decent people were asleep to put spells and enchantments on all those she wished to control. Poor Caesar was just one of her many victims. Did he not become frail in his later years, with the strange falling-down sickness? Either Kleopatra had caused those spells by her alchemy, or she had taken advantage of Caesar’s weakness in order to manipulate him. Their cherished late father, Kleopatra had duped with her dark magic all his life. She probably had had a curse put on him, the true cause of his death, once he had made her queen. Did they not know that she had also murdered two of her own brothers? Arsinoe loved watching the disgust on the faces of the Romans, so concerned with filial ties, when she told them stories of her sister’s crimes. No matter what happened to her now, she would at least know that she had done as much damage as possible to Kleopatra in the eyes of those whom she wished most to impress-the citizens of her beloved Rome.

  But now Julius Caesar was dead, and the orders against harming Arsinoe no longer stood. Now her sister was in the bed of the swaggering hulk whom Arsinoe had seen in Rome-all beef and bluster, that one. Was there no limit to Kleopatra’s harlotry? She, Arsinoe, would rather be dead than to find herself under the pernicious bulk of these shark-toothed monsters. She had made that much clear to the cretin Helvinius, who, despite Caesar’s orders, could not take his eyes off her breasts. She thought his eyes would fall out of his head with the force of his staring. He had tried-one time only-to sneak into her chamber when he thought everyone was asleep. He had crept onto her bed and tried to stick his penis in her mouth, but she gripped it, jerked it up, and bit with all her might one of his testicles. She had never heard anyone scream so loud. Within seconds, the priest was rushing into her room, followed by the other Roman sentries. Helvinius was carried away, still hunched over his balls, and assigned to a new post. Her only regret was that she had broken the skin, and tasted his salty blood on her tongue. She could not eat for a week. But at least she had tasted spilt Roman blood. That much was gratifying.