The mind was another story. He was tired of the sameness of human experience. He noticed that when he ate, he was tired of food, tired of chewing it, for that was the very definition of monotony. Food was simply food; the experience was the same with each of the day’s meals. Why did intelligent men set such store in consuming a well-prepared meal as if it were their first or their last, when they had many times thus feasted and would do so again and again? He was weary of the sameness and regularity of the necessary human functions-eating, sleeping, digestion and elimination, bathing, warring-and even more so of the uniformity of human nature. The greed, the lies, the petty fears, the lusts, and particularly the transparency of those things in almost every human being he encountered. He wondered if all people experienced this fatigue with life, or if it was a characteristic particular to himself. He would like to take the discussion up with Cicero, if he could once again win the old coot back to his side. That, he realized, was one of the very things of which he was so tired-the winning back of Cicero. Oh, he had done it all before, hadn’t he? What might await him now? Would the next decades be so tediously like the last?
How many nations must he subdue before the message was clear?
How might he spread the word of his desires to all the peoples of the earth so that he would not have to keep up the monotonous task of invading and annihilating? Perhaps he should commission an oral poet, one such as the legendary blind man, Homer, to spin tales of his conquests. Then he would send legions of poets forth to all corners of the earth to recount the stories of Great Caesar’s victories over his enemies, to tell tales of the horrors wreaked upon those who defied him. He would give traveling bards a special stipend to take the tales into lands he wished to conquer, inspiring terror in the people, who would then beg their leaders to lay down their arms and negotiate. It would certainly be more economical than sending legions everywhere. What a good idea, he thought, congratulating himself. He would pass it before Kleopatra this very evening, for she did know so much about poetry, and even more about ways to shape public opinion in one’s favor.
He was not tired of her, neither of her supple body nor of her less flexible but infinitely interesting mind. It would be difficult to leave her. He had not experienced the emotion of regret in decades. Would he carry it far from the Alexandrian shore? He did not know, and this alone pleased him-the fact that his future emotions regarding the young queen were not a foregone conclusion. She was the only surprising thing he had left. Something to which he might look forward. The only other adventure he might anticipate was death. Perhaps that would be interesting. Perhaps death was a reward rather than a curse. He would have to die to know, wouldn’t he?
His soldiers wanted to go home, but he realized that for them and for him, home was a theoretical place. They had been away for so long and on so many campaigns that campfire tales in the open air of a strange land were more familiar, more like home, than Rome. For what was Rome now but an idea they fought for? His idea, Pompey’s idea, Cicero’s idea, the senate’s idea. All different, but in the end the same. A place where power might be changed into money, and the reverse. Did it matter so who was in control as long as mouths were fed and pockets lined?
Caesar took a deep sigh, letting his shoulders relax, relieving the weight of his breastplate. He looked down at the murky water. The boy king looked just like another drowned body; neither his lineage nor his title could protect him from the soggy Fate. What an equalizer was death. Already fat, the water had bloated him further, his bulging eyes taken to caricature. So unseemly for a royal to be dredged out of the river this way, scooped into a net like the day’s fresh catch, his glittering armor catching the slanting rays of the sun as they hit the river. The king had perished along with some of his followers who had optimistically tried to escape in a river vessel too small for their numbers. Where they intended to sail Caesar did not know. Where did they think they might escape him? Escape Rome? He might have let the bodies remain at the river’s silted bottom, but he wearied of the rumors spread by the superstitious Alexandrians that whoever drowned in the river would inevitably rise again. No need for that to happen. And no need for anyone to wish it to be so once Caesar left Egypt. He wanted Kleopatra to have as little difficulty as possible once he was gone.
Was he dreaming that she had begun to behave exactly like his sweet Cornelia when she began to suspect that she was with child? The secretive smiles, the complete obedience, the tender and unconscious stroking of the belly when she thought no one was watching. The way she covered herself protectively with her arms. The downcast eyes. A perpetual look for docile Cornelia, but he never dreamed he would see the same demeanor in Kleopatra. Each day when he returned to the palace, she was waiting for him in the bedchamber. Yesterday, she had actually fallen at his feet, hugging his pelvis so close to her face that he did not know whether she was ready to perform sexual favors or pray.
“The gods have spared you,” she had cried, and then she had looked up at him with tiny tears in the corner of her virid eyes. So unlike her. The menacing intellect she had once used to gain equality with him was now hidden, and in its place was the lush, enveloping softness of womanhood. He had no doubt the more caustic elements of her personality would again emerge once she was on terra firma as queen and no longer required his services to ensure her authority. But it was nice, this radical change that allowed him to enjoy her without challenge or effort.
Caesar stood over Ptolemy’s body. “Strip the armor and display it in the marketplace,” he said to Hirtius, who gave the command to the men.
“And the king’s body, sir?”
“A respectable tomb, but without spectacle. Do I make myself clear?”
“Always, Caesar.”
Caesar took one last look into the dead boy’s eyes and turned away. An heir. What would he make of that? It would cause as many problems as it would solve, bring as much sorrow as joy, he was sure, for that was the nature of life. But it would be interesting. Perhaps there were a few surprises left after all.
Kleopatra watched the war from her own balcony like a spectator at a theatrical production. It was as if she had already read the text of the play, what with Caesar unfolding his plans to her at night, and then the next day enacting them to the letter. During those times, she learned that Caesar was right; Fortune was on his side. It seemed true that if Caesar wished something, it inevitably happened. It was as if he were dictating to the gods and not the opposite. Kleopatra thought that Alexander probably had possessed the same gift-that is, until the end, when the gods decided to reclaim their mastery over the mortal man. At some point, they would exact that toll from Caesar, but until then, it was clear that they kissed him with blessings. It was impossible to learn the personal secrets of Alexander-how he had gained influence over both the divine and mortal worlds-but here was Julius Caesar, in Kleopatra’s own bed, where she might observe his ways and learn how he managed to wield power over the gods themselves.
Ganymedes had had the palace entirely surrounded by land and by sea. His ships outnumbered Caesar’s navy, and to worsen the siege, he had pumped salt water into the wells used by the Roman army. But Caesar did not get discouraged; in fact, to Kleopatra he seemed nonplussed, mildly inconvenienced. He was certain that the Jewish forces would not let him down-they could not afford to disappoint him again-and so he told Kleopatra that they would make the best of things in the interim. She knew that the Roman army was only days from dying of thirst, and had told him so.
“No matter,” he had replied. “There’s always a way if men are willing to work. My men are bored anyway. They despise being on this end of a siege. They find it rather embarrassing. They’ll relish the task.” She did not know what he had in mind, until he urged her to look out her window. There, she watched Caesar’s men dig deep tunnels, working day and night, to reach the drinkable wells near the shore. When she congratulated him on the discovery of the wells, he replied, “Roman ingenuity.” He added, “A race of men who do
not mind work,” as a slight against the Greeks, who were thought to have grown indolent in the centuries since the great days of Pericles.
Finally, the Roman senate sent Caesar a small flotilla from Asia Minor. They had taken so long with naval reinforcements that Kleopatra had begun to wonder if they wished Caesar victorious in Egypt, or if they had a covert agenda. She asked him about the matter, and he replied that undoubtedly his enemies in Rome wished him van quished. “But the wishes of my enemies are of no consequence to the Fate of Caesar,” he said.
He promised Kleopatra that the next day would prove eventful, and he did not disappoint. In a night-long meeting with his admiral from Rhodes, to which he allowed Kleopatra attendance, she listened to them devise their plan. They would sail right up to the Egyptian ships, engage them in battle, and quickly set them afire.
“After we defeat the fleet, we shall take Pharos Island,” he said.
“All on the same day?” she asked.
“Why waste time?”
The next day, it happened exactly as Caesar had said, giving more credence to Kleopatra’s theory about his relationship with the gods. He burned most of the Egyptian fleet, including a merchant vessel carrying a large shipment of books to the Great Library. “A mistake,” he said to her by way of apology. And she did not fault him, for he loved literature as much as she and would never have done such a barbarous thing intentionally.
She felt a barrage of emotions as she watched ship by ship be overtaken and burned, great flames soaring into the blue Mediterranean sky as if competing with the fire atop the towering lighthouse. These were her ships, her men, her navy. Only circumstance had made them her enemy. Once reinstated, these same men would have to pledge loyalty to her. What did they care whether they served one Ptolemy or another? These were the same men who would have faced her mercenary army at Pelusium, had Pompey not been defeated by Caesar and fled to Egypt for quarter. Today they were her enemy; tomorrow they would have to be her defense. It was an insecure position, and she did not know if after the war she should bring her own army into the city for extra protection, or whether that would only increase hostility. She had a recent letter from Hephaestion saying that many of her mercenaries had deserted because they received better offers from the Roman generals to go to Syria and fight the Parthians. He could keep the rest paid and fed for another month, but no longer. What were her orders?
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.