Page 12 of Cleopatra

12

CLEOPATRA

I n the morning, Charmian shakes me, rousing me from sleep. I can see that as is his custom Caesar has already risen and gone – I wonder whether he slept at all. Charmian places a finger to her lips and beckons me to follow her. The other slaves eye her curiously. Apollodorus waits outside the chamber with a company of guards, who surround me on every side. I follow Apollodorus and Charmian in silence, my heart fluttering wildly in my chest like wings. We retrace the way to last night’s festivities. Slaves and servants fall to their knees as I pass, surprised to find me strolling the halls. I pay them no more heed than I would blades of grass as I wander through the gardens. When we enter the great hall, Apollodorus leads me to the fountain that so enchanted Caesar the previous evening. Its crimson water no longer gushes in arterial sprays but has dried in muddy stains along the channel at the base of each layer, the colour of old blood. I observe that the tiers of the fountain are littered with small birds, their coloured wings drab and robbed of their iridescence in death. Some of the tiny corpses have collapsed into the residual wine, and lie on their backs, twig legs scratching the air, rigid, their feathers and beaks stained red.

I lean over and sniff the dregs of the wine. It has an unpleasant, bitter scent. Apollodorus beckons and a man edges over to us, bowing and trembling.

‘This is the palace barber, Amun,’ explains Apollodorus.

‘The man who doesn’t speak, but only listens,’ I say. ‘If only more were wise enough to realise they have nothing worth saying out loud.’

‘But we are glad that some do speak when they should not,’ says Apollodorus. ‘Amun heard the eunuchs conspiring as he shaved them yesterday.’

The barber nods furiously. His skin is pale brown and flecked with hundreds of freckles. There’s the sound of footsteps and Caesar himself enters with his Praetorian body-guards and generals. Flavius strides over and takes in the fountain, picking up a bird between his forefinger and thumb, then drops it again with disgust.

‘Have any of the guests taken ill?’ asks Caesar.

Apollodorus shakes his head. ‘No, my lord. This wonder was kept for you and the queen.’

Caesar is quiet for a moment, considering, then turns to me. ‘The falcon you had as a girl?’

‘I found him like this,’ I say, gesturing to the fallen birds.

‘Poison is a woman’s trick, but eunuchs are not men. They are womanish in their wiles,’ says Apollodorus.

Caesar says nothing for a minute, his face grave and sad, and when he finally speaks, his voice is full of emotion. ‘Before Pompey was my enemy, he was my friend. The vision of him last night was a portent. He dragged himself back across the river Styx to warn me of this danger.’

The men of his guard mutter, half afraid, and make the sign of protection against the evil eye.

‘Pothinus and Achillas thought to kill you both with the wine,’ says Flavius, his voice low with anger. ‘This fountain is the queen’s toy, and they knew she would want to show it to Caesar. Once she had touched it, no one else could drink from it.’

The barber nods again, making extravagant gestures with his hands. Apollodorus watches him and then translates.

‘Amun says he heard them discuss this as he shaved them. They think he is stupid, as well as dumb.’

Caesar and his generals retreat to the side of the hall where they hold a conference in low voices. Caesar murmurs something in the ear of his general, who listens intently and then quits the room. The eye of the sun is opening wide and peers in at the open window. The heat swells and I long to shed my sandals and step into the rills rushing cool spring water through the halls.

Pothinus enters the hall at a lick, sweaty and puffing. Ptolemy trails behind him, a huddle of slaves following in his wake. They are a ragtag company this morning, lacking their usual pomp. The eunuch stops abruptly as he sees the graveyard of birds. Pothinus stares at me. His skin looks waxy and drips like a sweating candle, and for the first time he looks afraid.

‘We have uncovered your plot,’ I say.

He shakes his head, blinks. ‘This is not my doing.’

‘So you are happy to find us in excellent health?’ I ask, trying to keep the incredulity from my voice.

‘Always, my queen.’

‘Where is Achillas?’ I demand.

Pothinus doesn’t answer. Ptolemy shifts from foot to foot and stares at his advisor, as though he too would like to know where his other general has gone.

‘Indeed, where is Achillas?’ says Caesar, coming to join us. ‘You are twin delights, a pair of shadows without the man who casts them.’

If Pothinus is insulted by the dig at his lack of manhood, he’s for once wise enough not to show it. He licks his dry lips, his tongue a darting pink lizard. He studies me intently for a moment, and then says slowly, ‘Caesar never drinks wine. It would be a poor method to employ, should I wish to harm him. And, we swear to you with our love that we do not.’ He turns to me, his gaze cold and furious. ‘And you, madam, did you sip from the fountain? Or did you know not to drink?’

‘The court saw me take wine and drink,’ I reply.

There is general murmuring, for it’s true – they remember watching me. I showed Caesar, and then I drank.

‘Praise fortune and Zeus. She was protected by the gods. They intervened and saved her from this vicious trick,’ declares Caesar, taking my hand and kissing it with relief. ‘My kinsman Pompey dragged himself from beyond the grave to deliver us warning of this plot.’

‘Someone else did this foul thing. Look elsewhere,’ beseeches Pothinus.

‘As you open your mouth, you bring forth weeds and malice,’ I say.

‘I know nothing of this,’ says Ptolemy, speaking for the first time. His voice is a pleading whine. ‘If they did this horrible deed, it was not on my command.’

He is trying to distance himself from the crime, but his generals acting without his express authority makes him appear weak.

Caesar ignores him.

Flavius returns with members of Caesar’s guard, red-faced and breathless. ‘We’ve searched the palace, but Achillas is fled.’

‘Guilty men run,’ says Caesar, turning to stare again at Pothinus.

The eunuch looks around the room, snared by his own viciousness. I can see the whites of his eyes like a dog who knows he’s about to be kicked. Now, my brother looks really frightened and glances between me and Pothinus, who falls to his knees before Caesar and begins to grovel.

‘I swear, I did not do this. This is not my doing.’

Caesar studies him evenly then says, ‘It’s devious and malevolent. Like inviting a man to shore, offering him a hospitable welcome and then butchering him before his feet touch dry land?’ Caesar’s voice rises in uncharacteristic anger. ‘Pompey’s blood stains your hands and cannot be washed clean.’

Pothinus prostrates himself on the floor. ‘That was badly done. And I have begged your forgiveness and that of the gods. But this I did not do.’

‘Fie, you wrangle for your life, but if your ill deeds were fishes, your skin is the net stretched to bursting.’

Pothinus sits up on his heels and opens his mouth to plead again, but Caesar signals with his fingers, and at once his general Flavius steps forward, unsheathing his blade, and grabs Pothinus’s head and yanks it back. He pulls the sword across the eunuch’s throat in a fluid motion. Pothinus’s eyes widen in surprise, and he claws at the gaping slit as he starts to drown wetly in blood. There’s a sucking sound and bubbles of blood form on his lips, containing the last words he’ll never say out loud. They pop and vanish. We watch him as we would a trout flailing on the shore; no one speaks or moves to his side. He’s no longer a man, merely a grotesque spectacle we recoil from. His dying seems to go on and on, the blood rushing and rushing from his throat in a crimson waterfall, soaking his tunic and streaming onto the floor until we all have to step back so that it doesn’t stain our shoes. There’s no noise except for the gurgling and his hands tapping on the marble floor as if he is calling for Osiris the death god to come and fetch his soul. Then at last he stills and slumps face first into the spreading pool of his own blood.

I stare at the huddled figure. He has tormented me for so many years and now, when his end comes, it is swift and silent. He’s been plucked out of this world and cast down into the dark and I shall not grieve for him. He yearned for my death as other men pine for a lover.

‘Seal the palace. Find Achillas,’ snaps Caesar.

Flavius hurries out of the hall with a company of soldiers. I stare at the corpse, transfixed, and have to force myself to look away. Several slaves rush in with buckets and rags to clear up the mess and viscera, but one of them misjudges the extent of the river of blood on the dark polished floor and slides over, landing hard on top of the corpse. The other slaves haul him to his feet. They sweep the mess into the rills with brooms instead, marbling the clear waters red then pink.

‘Dearest queen, I am glad that you weren’t plucked from me by this foul poison,’ says Caesar.

He kisses me on the cheek and then, turning, leaves with his bodyguards.

The slaves haul out the body, leaving a slick of viscera upon the marble. The room smells of meat. I stare at the wet and bloody trail. Charmian and Apollodorus come to stand beside me. It’s so quiet and still, the only noise the sound of water running across the stones in the open streams. Charmian reaches for my hand, I let her take it.

‘Your falcon died of old age, his feathers grey,’ she says quietly. ‘We buried him under the lemon trees.’

I don’t reply.

‘Does Caesar know the truth?’ asks Apollodorus. ‘The barber played his part beautifully.’

I shrug. I don’t know. The poison was added after the party, the birds tempted to drink by the sugar and honey stirred into the wine. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘Caesar needed a reason to kill them. I gave it to him as a sharpened blade. A bloody gift. More valuable by far than all the rubies he gifted to me.’