Page 11 of Cleopatra

11

CLEOPATRA

T hey find Ptolemy just as Ra is finishing his nightly journey through the underworld, and rising again in the east, as a flaming beetle to heat the world. The guards drag Ptolemy back to the palace under arrest. I can hear him cursing and calling down the wrath of the gods upon me. My heart hurries in my chest. He needed to be caught, but now he’s here, I wonder what Caesar intends to do with him. Soon he’ll discuss the matter with his portentous advisors. They share the same cut of beard and the same sense of doom, and I can’t tell them apart. And yet, he often wants to know what I think of their advice. He listens to me carefully, never interrupting, and I know that he is starting to value my counsel as much as that of any Roman.

Caesar rises from the bed, leaving the chamber, and my slaves wash and prepare me in his absence. I stand with my arms above my head as they sluice me with warm water, watching in silence as the early morning light drifts in through the shutters. I don’t like that Ptolemy is now lodging within the palace, the worm inside the apple. Something has shifted again. Before the fires were further off, now they burn right here. Charmian dresses me for Caesar’s company, adorning me in gold and jewels so that every part of me glisters. My serpent amulet pinches into the flesh of my arm like a too-ardent lover. The door opens and Caesar returns as I finish my toilet. He eyes me as a dish of plump olives set before him. He reaches for my wrist, pulls me close and bites my lip. Charmian and the other slaves withdraw.

‘Your brother can wait,’ he says. ‘He must sit quietly for a while and fester before we grant him audience.’

‘Because now that you have him, you’re not sure what to do with him,’ I say.

Caesar laughs, and bends towards me, capturing my chin in his hands. I want to turn away, impatient to hear his intentions, but I don’t for it would be impolitic. His kisses warm into something else, and soon, as he shoves at me, I exaggerate the pleasures I feel. I don’t want him now, I only want to know what he plans to do. After we are finished and lie breathless side-by-side, I can hear the hurry of voices just outside our chamber.

‘Don’t shuffle and whine, come in,’ calls Caesar.

The old men enter, feigning not to notice that we are naked and in bed, but carry on as if we’re seated discreetly upon adjoining sofas. Charmian has slid back in with the advisors and I gesture to her to come and dress me so I can leave them to their discussions, but Caesar stops me, saying in Greek, ‘Stay and listen.’

The old men flinch with dislike. They hate that Caesar beds me, and worse still that he heeds me; I’m a woman, a licentious Egyptian and a queen. I’m not sure which they dislike most, I’m a triumvirate of distaste. Charmian slips a shawl over my shoulders, and wrapping myself in it I sit up unabashed that I’m naked underneath, and answer Caesar in Latin, switching easily between languages. ‘I will gladly stay and offer you my thoughts.’ I smile and nod towards the advisors. ‘But you know what they’re all saying about you, don’t you, mighty Caesar?’

‘You want me to say no, so no, what are they saying about me?’

‘You conjugated with Cleopatra when you should have declined.’

Caesar laughs uproariously at the old joke, carefully deployed. There is truth in it. None of the men around us are pleased that I am in his arms. They do not laugh at the joke.

‘Well then, what shall we do with the prisoner?’ he asks, frowning and rising from the bed to be dressed.

One of the greybeards scowls and coughs. ‘You can’t kill him, but so long as he lives, he is trouble.’

‘Troublesome in life, and troublesome dead,’ says Caesar. ‘How long till our legions reach Alexandria?’

‘Still weeks if not months. The winds have not been favourable.’

Caesar’s might is in his reputation but also in his armies and, cut off from them, he’s a body without fists. Since I can recognise his present vulnerability, so can all his enemies. If he was shielded by his usual number of legionaries, the eunuch crows would never dare to insult and threaten him as they do. They tug at his weakness like a loose thread, and I fear the vestiges of his power will unravel. I’ve never found myself praying so hard to the gods to hurry the arrival of Roman legions into Egypt.

Ptolemy’s arrest has incensed the crowds in the street, and I can hear the noise outside the palace like the roar of the sea. Even in here, with the shutters closed, the air is thick with smoke. The city is burning and we are cut off from our troops. Our position here is precarious, we are nesting on the edge of a cliff.

‘What do you think I should do?’ he asks, turning to me.

His advisors recoil, horrified. It’s bad enough that he beds me, an abomination that he listens to me. I hesitate. The advice I wish to offer does not need an audience. Caesar senses my hesitation and dismisses the old men with a wave, snapping at them to ‘Go, apace.’

I take a moment to put my thoughts into words. I’m relieved he is including me and my interests in his decisions. I consider for a moment. I must flatter Caesar as well as offer my solution.

‘You must address the crowd yourself. I’ve heard that you are the greatest orator of them all.’

‘An exaggeration,’ he says with a wave, but I can tell he’s not displeased.

‘Tell them that you are keeping Ptolemy here for his own safety. He’s not under arrest but your protection. But it also falls to you and to Rome to stop the confusion and the warring factions. Declare once and for all that I am queen. That I rule alone, with Rome’s backing.’

He looks amused by my audacity, but I know that he could not have expected anything else.

‘And your brother? What do we do with Ptolemy?’

‘Keep him here for now. Then you cannot be accused of murder. But, you must kill the eunuchs. No one keeps a viper for a pet. They will bite you at any moment. It’s what they do, they cannot help it any more than rain can help falling from the sky.’

He looks up at me, propped on his elbow, expression quizzical.

‘You enjoy me not merely because I am a woman but because I am a queen. So, do not listen to the woman, hear only the queen.’

‘Men of Rome do not like kings or queens.’

‘You are not in Rome.’

‘I am not.’

‘And you are not only a man, you are Caesar. I ask you to be Caesar now. Swear to me that you will do this thing. Mark them with blood. Or give me leave and I shall do it in Caesar’s name.’

He stares at me, taken aback by my grisly determination.

‘If no man is willing to touch the eunuchs, then a woman shall.’

My hands tremble, I hide them behind my back as though they are already streaked with blood. I do not want to murder. But, for the good of Egypt I will do it and end this war. Caesar surveys me, his expression unreadable.

‘First of all you must declare me as the only Pharaoh to the Alexandrians. But that’s not all you must do.’

‘There’s more?’ asks Caesar, entertained by my presumption.

‘Yes. For while your rhetoric is, I’m sure, peerless, you don’t know Alexandrians. You must ply them with compliments like sweet wine but you must also give them something they want.’

Caesar studies me, his expression hardening, no longer amused. ‘It is you who must give to Rome.’

I want to tell him that I’ve already given to Rome again and again and again, and what I’ve given should be enough, but I don’t. I force myself to smile.

‘Give, in order to receive. You want peace. Seem generous. Give us back Cyprus.’

‘The isle your father lost in order to pay his debt to Rome?’

‘Yes, and he lost it along with his people’s love. Give it back, and if they do not love you for it, they will certainly hate you less.’

‘That is a high price for a miserly affection.’

I don’t answer. He is a Roman, used to setting high prices, not paying them. We have paid out to Rome again and again, in slaves and gold and grain and blood. He may or may not choose to give us Cyprus, and my trying to persuade him will only seem like weakness. I can sense his irritation, whether at me or at the disadvantage of his position, I cannot tell. He stands and quits the room without taking my leave. I know where he’s going: to speak to my brother. He does not ask me to accompany him. My mouth is suddenly dry as though I’ve sucked on sand – he has not confided in me his thoughts or intentions.

I stand beside Caesar on the balcony of the great palace. It’s a stone platform jutting out, so we can see the twisting streets beneath and can also be seen by the throng gathered in the street below. I’m arrayed in royal purple, my gown heavy in the heat, the diadem on my forehead stopping the sweat trickling into my eyes. I glance down at the mass of people gathered in the street below and their roar is so loud it’s like the smashing of the waves upon the shore, and I want to put my hands over my ears and slide back into the palace. I can feel their hatred for me and Caesar, it lands on my skin like spittle. Charmian kneels at my feet, and I watch beads of perspiration trickle down her neck. I gaze at her and think of all my followers and know that it is for them I stand here, pretending to be unafraid.

Still, I’m relieved we’re out of reach of the missiles of filth that they hurl at us, and that the globs of cow shit, other excrement and rotting fish land on the walls beneath and slide back onto the crowd. Caesar’s expression reveals no revulsion, concern or a hint of his intentions, and he makes no move yet to speak. We stand and listen and wait as the noise crashes around us, echoing off the stone. The heat is bitter and cloying. Charmian is swaying on her knees, and I wonder if she’s going to faint. I cannot help her. A queen cannot stoop to concern over her slave, even if she is her friend. Then, I realise that the soldiers and slaves and the members of the court gathered on the balcony are beginning to shuffle and bow, and I see to my astonishment Ptolemy waddling out to join us. He doesn’t appear as a prisoner but a swollen prince, adorned in purple robes that perfectly mirror mine. His round face is flushed with satisfaction and shiny with heat, his small eyes are pebbles squashed into his face. He doesn’t look at me, but grins at Caesar, who nods at him in acknowledgement. The note of the crowd changes, from rage to excitement, for these are his friends not mine, those souls left in the city belong to him. I think of my devotees stuck outside the city, death circling them with black wings, and I’m filled with cold rage.

At last Caesar steps forward, grasping my hand so I must join him or yank my arm away. That, I don’t dare to do. And then, I see to my absolute dismay that his other arm is draped around my brother. He clears his throat and begins to speak.

‘Rome brings you good tidings, great and worthy Alexandrians. Ptolemy is here under our protection. I return to you, out of the generosity and largesse of Rome, the isle of Cyprus.’

I stare at him, trying to catch his eye, gratified that he’s taken my advice. He doesn’t look at me, and annoyance tugs at me. I realise he wants the audience to believe the return of Cyprus is entirely his own idea, not in response to my suggestion.

‘And as a friend of Egypt and Alexandrians, I’m here to help restore order,’ he continues. ‘You are blessed sons and daughters of Egypt, for you are blessed with two living gods and two Pharaohs, Cleopatra, father-loving daughter who rules alongside her brother-husband, Ptolemy.’

I’m no longer annoyed but dismayed. I glance at Caesar, pricked with fury, but he doesn’t look at me. This is betrayal. There is nothing that I can do in this moment. I cannot remonstrate or contradict him, but his disloyalty lodges in my chest. He takes my hand. I long to snatch it away, but I don’t. He gives my hand to Ptolemy, who hesitates only for a second and then takes it, holding my fingers as though they’re steeped in poison and just a touch could kill him. I stare across at Caesar, aghast. Charmian swivels round to look at me, astounded and afraid. I’m dizzy with rage and hurt. I was a fool to think Caesar was my friend, he belongs only to Rome.

That evening, I lie upon a sofa in my chamber, feigning composure. I want to pace and rage and hurl pots against the walls. Instead, I lounge and feel the sea breeze upon my cheek. Charmian and Apollodorus watch me, brittle with worry.

‘I cannot rule with Ptolemy. It will end in death,’ I say slowly.

And, here in Alexandria without my army and friends, it will probably be mine. I try to push away my anger at Caesar’s speech.

‘Did he give you his word that you would rule alone?’ asks Apollodorus.

‘I thought he did. Half a dozen times. But he would not swear to it even though I asked him.’

Whether he promised me or not, this feels like betrayal. I’ve paid the price in flesh for him to choose me. Outrage scratches at me, and yet I try to cool my rising temper and consider why Caesar made his proclamation. I know he has no love for my brother. This was a decision made by Caesar out of weakness. We’re surrounded by Ptolemy’s supporters, his army is the noose around Alexandria. This palace is a sinking island in hostile seas. Caesar’s speech was to still those waters, give us more time until his legions arrive. But I need to survive until they reach us. When they’re here, they can clear the way for my own army to join them and I’ll be protected. Until then, we’re two gods stranded on mortal soil without our thunderbolts.

Caesar’s words have only made me more vulnerable. Despite being my lover, he has been careful not to declare his absolute loyalty, an apparent ambivalence that Pothinus and Achillas will view as an invitation to try harder to murder me. If Caesar won’t act and do what needs to be done, then I must.

‘Tell me the whispers,’ I say to Apollodorus.

‘I’m listening. I’ve heard nothing useful yet.’

‘Listen harder.’

Fear makes me snappish. They all watch me; Charmian’s eyes are wide, startled by my displeasure. ‘As I am Egypt’s queen, be stirred. Let us remind Caesar of our brilliance and let him glimpse our witchery. This is an evening for marvels.’

Apollodorus and the others continue to stare at me, half afraid of me as well as for me. I make myself smile at them, hoping I exude confidence I don’t yet feel. ‘Listen to me now and the gods will still make this a happy day for Cleopatra.’

Isis is goddess of witchcraft and magic. She tames Death himself so that he is giddy with love. I am her creature in this world, and she will help me when I ask. I order offerings and present them at her shrine and command the priests to pray to her in my name. I need to borrow her power and magic and show them who I am and what I can do.

That evening Caesar hosts a banquet, not in the guest palace but in the royal quarters of the palace itself to celebrate the reunion of Ptolemy and me. He has taken over the main palace in a display of strength and bravado. This is my old domain; these are the golden halls I roamed as a girl. I chose the designs of the mosaics arrayed in gold, grey, blue, emeralds, rubies, rose and milk agate, and ordered the carvings in hippopotamus ivory. I selected the panther-skin rugs and the silver-dipped horns of the ibis and the vast wooden doors inlaid with jewels and carved with cavorting gods.

Candles sway suspended from the roof beams, their light refracting in the golden ceilings as well as on the surface of the indoor streams that run through the palace. The trickle of the water mingles with the shimmering chords of lyres and everywhere pools of light shimmer and play. The very air itself seems gilded and set with spinning jewels. The night is thick with the scent of jasmine and jacaranda blossom. In the gardens beyond, ten thousand torches shine out in the darkness, so bright that they snatch away the night and it seems the sun god Ra himself has been tricked into coming out early. If the gods ventured into my palace, they would not realise that they have left Mount Olympus or the celestial Field of Reeds.

My tricks with light are just a hint of what’s to come, for tonight my power has a whiff of the divine. Ptolemy calls me serpent of the Nile and believes it is an insult, but it is not. The serpent god has many names, and I have learned them all. She is chaos and power and beauty. I know, for I speak the language of their gods and of my people. And in return, the gods speak to me. If Caesar does not understand who I truly am, then he must be made to learn.

For this one night, Pothinus permits fruit, meat and non-mouldy grain to enter the palace, showing that he can withhold and also provide. This is his earthly and petty demonstration of power. Mine shall dazzle. I wear a robe of purple silk, fat, bloody rubies in my ears and gold bangles of emerald-eyed vipers twisted round my arms, so heavy that I can hardly raise my wrists. Caesar sent the ruby earrings to my apartments with a note requesting me to wear them: at once a gift and an order. I oblige with quiet fury. The jewels aren’t even his to give, for they are from my own treasury and are not in his gift. I itch for this war to finish, and to be free to remind the Roman that the wealth and prizes he raids like one of the pirates in his stories are not his but mine. For all his charm and kisses, he’s a thief. I am waiting to be paid and my price is a kingdom.

All the other guests are assembled and waiting, the cronies of my brother’s court. They wear his favours in the form of emeralds and shining gold upon fat fingers. They gossip in Greek, not wanting to dirty their tongues with native Egyptian words. As I arrive at the banquet with my train of slaves, they cannot help but stare with grudging admiration. I want to laugh at them. They’ve picked the wrong side in this struggle. Soon, they’ll be begging me for mercy, stripping the gems from their fingers and placing them at my feet alongside their grovelling apologies. I might forgive them. For now, I shimmer as Isis and I wield my serpent wand. My retinue are all dressed as nymphs and demi-gods and Caesar greets me with a kiss.

‘Fairer than a spring morning,’ he says. ‘Persephone herself would be slighted when she saw your beauty.’

I accept his flattery with a smile as though nothing has shifted, when in truth I feel as if he is stepping on my gown, and I want to tug it free. I feel Charmian flinch behind me at his remark, sometimes she is more my own self than I can be. I spy Ptolemy in the corner already at the banquet, stuffing olives and oysters into his mouth. There’s a slick of grease on his chin.

‘Come, my friend,’ calls Caesar, beckoning to him. ‘Stand with your sister-wife. Let us celebrate this peace and new prosperity.’

I stare at Caesar. Even as he declares me to be another man’s wife, he strokes my cheek with the pad of his thumb, and places a kiss on the inside of my wrist as Ptolemy lumbers over, unsmiling and reluctant. For once my brother and I agree on something – this situation cannot continue. Even for us, this is peculiar: he is here as my husband and co-ruler in an occasion overseen by my lover. Caesar can’t stop touching me, like a child unable to resist picking at a scab. He doesn’t even play along with the pretence that I’m my brother’s wife. Caesar is mistaken if he believes this absurd course will give him much respite from fighting or danger. I watch carefully which dishes my brother eats from and consume only those. Despite the glory of the palace and the sumptuousness of the feast, it’s set out on earthenware plates.

‘Why not gold?’ I ask. ‘Do you seek to insult our guest, eunuch?’ I demand, turning to Pothinus.

The eunuch smirks and bows low in a feigned apology. ‘Great queen and honoured consul and dictator, the golden tableware has had to be melted and sold to meet worthy Caesar’s demands for money. Only earthenware is left.’

I’d laugh if it wasn’t so absurd. The golden plates will likely be stacked in Pothinus’s own suite. Caesar again pretends not to notice the insult, but the eunuchs are simpletons. Caesar sees everything. He only waits. I take his hand and lead him to a fountain that appears to have stuttered and stopped, and gesture to a slave to give him a cup.

‘I’m not thirsty. And it’s broken.’

‘Is it? Let me fill it for you.’

I place my cup beneath the fountain and at once, through some enchantment, it spouts with a torrent of red wine. In moments the cup is overflowing. Caesar laughs, amazed, and takes another cup from the slave. He fills his own, watching the crimson fountain turn on and off, his expression bright, shedding years.

‘It works for me too, so this witchcraft is not yours alone,’ he declares.

‘Ah, but I still command it,’ I say with a smile. I can tell he’s charmed and diverted. I’m relieved that Apollodorus and Charmian have carried out my directions with such care. Ptolemy, however, sulks in the corner, watching us. The guests circle Caesar and me, we are the fire that draws them. Any dish or drink that we touch, no ordinary guest is offered, it’s kept for us alone. We anoint it with our favour.

There’s a trill of birdsong and the air is full of coloured birds, flying above in jagged patterns. One of the mosaics is of exotic birds and as the real birds flutter before the glittering tiles, it appears as though they have flown out of the artwork, breathed into sudden, miraculous life. Caesar laughs and claps his hands, almost boyish in his delight. The other guests applaud, but Ptolemy hunches and scowls, stuffs another piece of sausage into his mouth.

The music from the lyres and flutes drifts around us, and slaves sway in beaded dresses as the Roman soldiers stare, glossy with sweat and eyes glazed with desire. I know how the Romans consider us wicked and corrupt, and yet they travel to Egypt eager for dissolution and debauchery. They long to revel in their disapproval of me and tonight, I shall give them what they want – even if it’s a performance shaped to mirror their own desires. Caesar’s guards are shiny with drink and heat and they stare at the swaying slaves as the light creates rippling patterns upon the dancers’ skin; the Romans are no longer soldiers but a legion of Echoes mesmerised by my dancing Narcissi. Their dreams pull Romans to Alexandria like moths to the moon – their desire for exotic enchantment is as potent as their greed for gold and grain. I shall send them scurrying back to Rome brimming with scurrilous tales. The dancers have painted themselves with gold and silver in exquisitely rendered designs, and as the sounds of the flutes knot and weave, they step out of their beaded dresses and undulate naked, save for the gold anointing their skin. The effect is mimetic, and the audience stares as if in a dream. The scent of myrrh, sweet rosemary and cedar is so strong, I can taste the bitter herbs on the back of my tongue.

And, then at once, with a loud crack, the massive carved doors to the hall slowly open, the wood grinding against the stone. It takes four slaves to operate these doors, they’re ten men high and hewn from sycamore and studded with gold. Yet now no slave is touching them and the doors are swinging open by themselves. The guests rouse themselves from their trance, intrigued to see who or what has the strength to move them, but when the doors are fully open the entrance yawns empty. There is no one there at all. No monster stands in the gaping doorway, only the torches spit in the garden beyond. A hush descends like a snuffer upon a candle. Even the dancers are stilled.

‘No one is there. They opened by some invisible force. Or perhaps it was the breeze made by the breath of a god,’ I say softly.

‘A god? Or a shade from beyond,’ says Apollodorus. ‘And what news or portent do they bring?’

‘You mock my eyes with air,’ says Caesar, turning to me.

And yet he stares intently.

‘No, my lord. You have seen the signs. These are black night’s pageants.’

The scent of incense and herbs is overpowered by that of smoke. It fills the air, so that the slaves start to run in search of the fire, fearing the palace is ablaze. After a minute or two, the smoke dissipates by itself, but then we see a figure now stands in the gloom, tangled in the last threads of smoke. Its eyes glow red. The slaves scream and run. The legionaries grab for their swords and rush forward, still half drunk on wine and fading lust, bellowing curses.

‘Pompey,’ says Caesar, stricken, recognising the figure.

The figure looms, holding something outstretched on a tray.

I step forward and Caesar moves to walk beside me – he cannot be seen to be reluctant or frightened, especially next to a woman and an Egyptian. The figure is a statue and yet it is so perfectly carved, the creases around the eyes and the soft sag of skin around the throat so real, he looks not so much a statue as a man frozen into stone by a gorgon. As I stare, I could almost be certain that he has the breath of life on his cheek. And yet, as I reach out and touch him with my fingers, he is cold, hard marble. There is also something terrible about the carving, his expression at once mournful and enraged. The eyes are bright with fire as if lit from within.

I can see now that this Pompey holds out a second head, his own, on a tray, proffering it to Caesar once again. This is Pompey resurrected and whole, yet he holds his own death before him, a reproach and an offering. I glance at Caesar and can see he is disturbed and unsettled, though trying not show it. The dancers cling to one another and the musicians forget to play.

‘Who did this thing? Or is it the work of the gods?’ he demands.

No one answers.

‘It is wonderous terrible,’ he mutters, half to himself.

Ptolemy stands in the corner of the room, his face pale and aghast. Before him is the man he murdered, the great general stabbed and gutted like a street thief on his orders. Achillas and Pothinus, his co-conspirators, seem less frightened than angry, as though before the statue was conjured out of the smoke, Caesar had forgotten their crime. They huddle and glower. I edge away from the statue. Caesar hesitates and then retreats. As we do, the doors begin to close again, still untouched by slave or man. The musicians have abandoned their playing, and the only noise is the creak of wood, and the bang as the massive doors shut. The noise rolls around the hall like thunder in the mountains and then is still. The silence is heavy as ash.

‘Let us to bed. We must rest,’ says Caesar at last.

He takes my hand, and my brother watches us leave, unable to conceal his unease and displeasure. Caesar leaves me alone in my room so Charmian can ready me for his company. I’m weighted down with too many jewels, my dress too elaborate for him to take satisfaction in undressing me. She lingers over the task, dismissing Iras and the other slaves so that we can be alone as she strips me of the golden amulets and beaded necklaces.

‘You did well,’ I say, my voice low. ‘The display was perfect. When the doors opened I almost believed it was magic myself.’

‘It seemed like terrible magic. I don’t understand how else the statue of Pompey came to life,’ she replies. ‘It was a malevolent marvel.’

I smile, amused. She peeped behind the curtain, knows how the trick was performed, she watched as the inventor set the underground pulleys, as he ordered slaves to heat pipes for steam, and Charmain paid in gold the sculptor who made Pompey’s death mask. Yet she is still afraid. ‘Man’s genius is akin to magic, a divine gift from the gods,’ I say, trying to reassure her.

‘If it helps you, then I will do it. Magic or not,’ she says.

Apollodorus opens the door, and Caesar enters. The slaves withdraw, leaving us alone.