Page 17 of Cleopatra
17
CLEOPATRA
I like Rome no better on the second visit. The city has gained neither wisdom, beauty nor better drains since we were last here. Even though I’d prefer to remain in my palace by the sea, it is time for me to visit Caesar. I want his assurances that Rome will lend me support without interference. I am no puppet queen. My throne is my own. And yet, beyond the necessity of the visit, there is something else. I want him to meet his son, but even this is not the only reason I want to see him. After some wine, I confess to Charmian that I miss him, just a little. His smile. The way he listens when I talk. How his hands feel on my skin.
‘How much do you miss him?’ she teases. ‘I yearn for Apollodorus like I do for spring at winter’s close. Or as I long for the soft arms of sleep at the end of each day. Do you miss Caesar like that?’
I hesitate, for I do not long for Caesar with such ardent need.
‘No, as I crave a taste of honey after a salty feast.’
‘A taste only?’ she asks, laughing.
I do not answer. My affection for Caesar would not be enough for me to leave my court in Egypt and travel to Rome, if it were not also politically expedient. And yet the thought of seeing him again gives me considerable pleasure. It’s an image I turn over again and again in my mind, as though his face is a favourite fresco.
Last time I came here with my father, now I arrive in state as queen, with my brother as my husband, in name at least. Tol does not wish to be in Rome, he wanted to stay behind in Alexandria, training his falcon and roaming the palace gardens. He’s been lost since Arsinoe’s betrayal. He’s sullen and quiet, and I don’t know what happened to the sweet-natured, open-faced boy. Our family destroys people, the snake eating its own tail. I couldn’t risk letting Tol stay in Egypt without me. I don’t believe that he will seek to snatch my throne – he is still a boy, and he used to be fond of me – but so was my sister once. His advisors are not as rancid as Pothinus or Achillas, but I forbid them from accompanying us to Rome. I watch from the window as the now tall and skinny boy trails around the gardens that slope down the Tiber, one of his hunting birds on his arm, a wagging pack of dogs following behind. I will protect him as best I can. He doesn’t need to like me. Fondness won’t keep him safe.
This journey to Rome is different for I am not only Pharaoh and Queen of the Red Lands and the Black, Isis on earth, Mother of Egypt, but the mother of a boy. My son Caesarion is eighteen months. When he was born, I felt first my body split open, then my heart. It now lives with him, apart from myself. I did not know I could feel such love, bright and fierce. Now I have seen the sun, I do not want to go back into the dark, and I know that I could. My love is latticed with fear that the gods will take him from me if I do not please them. Nothing else matters. Only him. All I do now, each course I take, is for Egypt and for him.
The house Caesar has lent me is pleasant if small. To my relief it stands a little outside Rome, away from the stink of the city. I too would have preferred to remain in Alexandria, in my own palace surrounded by date palms, tumbling fountains and scented by sea air. In Alexandria, Caesar belonged only to me. Here, I must share him, not only with other women but with Rome.
He comes to visit me the day before his triumph. I try again to persuade him not to parade my sister in the pageant. He smiles and takes my hand, kissing it.
‘Cleopatra’s womanly scruples and kindness do her much credit.’
I pull my hand away, indignant.
‘You think it’s kindness? Pity? Have you forgotten who Cleopatra is?’ I demand. ‘I ask you not to parade my sister in front of this crowd because it is impolitic. They will not want to see her whipped or to watch her die.’
Caesar is not riled by my hiss of temper, he only smiles, unperturbed. He likes my fire. ‘Ah, you do not know the appetite of Romans for blood.’
I imagine it’s much like the hunger for savagery elsewhere, but I do not press him. There has been time and distance between us, and I am not yet sure of him. He wants to please me, but I can’t tell whether it is to placate the Pharaoh of Egypt whose treasuries he wishes to raid again, or if he simply desires to make me happy. He has granted me the honour of hosting a celebration for him after the triumph. I must be satisfied with that for now.
He takes my hand and leads me towards the villa. As we approach he kisses me, and I warm to him. He holds my face in his hands, and I see that he is tired and yet he smiles at me, small papery creases appearing around his eyes.
‘I am yet Caesar and you are Cleopatra,’ he says, kissing me again.
There is a pleasant familiarity to his touch, and I kiss him back, wrapping my arms around him. Then, from the villa I hear crying. Caesarion has woken and is angry, wants me. Unthinking, I turn away from Caesar and start to move to the house. He catches my arm and pulls me back to him.
‘The slaves will take care of him,’ he says.
I try to ignore the sound of my son’s screams, but I hear them from inside my skull. I can think of nothing else. Only his cries. His distress. Caesar isn’t concerned by them at all. His only interest is me. Turning over my wrist and laying a soft kiss on the tender skin, his lips linger. It’s both a suggestion and a command. I have no choice but to obey.
Later that evening, I sit on a bench in the nursery by the light of a single candle, keeping watch as Caesarion sleeps. Smouldering incense fills the room with the scent of oil and musk roses. Miniature carved figures of Horus, Bes and Bastet cast shadows as their godheads seep out of the figurines to guard my baby boy from death and terrors. Trails of tears are drying on his cheeks like snail tracks, and his dimpled fists are tightly curled. His mouth is open, soft and pink with the pearlescent gleam of his first teeth. This is love, I think, as I watch him. It’s so sharp, it pricks like fear.
I hear a noise behind me, and turning, I see Charmian beside me. She looks as tired as I feel, and I lay my head on her shoulder. We stand before the cradle, watching my baby as he sleeps. The goddess and queen have been stripped from me and put to bed for the night, and now there is only the woman left: thin and tired with shadows beneath my eyes, scrubbed clean of all makeup, my hairpiece unstitched. Beneath my tunic, I run my fingers across the pale stretch marks scoring my belly and hips from carrying Caesarion. My exposed skin is chafed raw from the weight of the golden jewellery.
Charmian rubs my back with strong fingers, teasing the knots, and I lean into her. I wonder if she can smell Caesar on me. I am sticky with sweat and his pleasure. I gaze down at Caesarion, the brush of thick lashes. He’s on his tummy, his knees tucked up beneath him, his bottom in the air, his small toes coiled. He’s just a baby and yet Rome is a writhing viper pit seething with those who want him dead. A son of Caesar, foreign-born with a queen for a mother.
I nibble my fingernail and stare at him. I’m so full of love and worry that I can hardly breathe. All mothers fear for their children: death and accident lurk always. Yet I fear for him as much from men as I do from the ghouls of pestilence and disease. I stare at him, greedy with love, and experiencing the thoughts of every mother from peasant to queen that this child, mine, mine, is perfect. He is so perfect that he wounds the heart that loves him. Unable to bear it any longer, I reach out and brush his plump and perfect cheek with my fingertips so that his eyes flutter for a moment and opening them, he stares at me with wide black eyes, and then ebbs from me back into sleep.
I sigh and stroke his small hand, the dimpled knuckles. Charmian tries to slip away and leave us, not wanting to intrude. I catch her hand, tugging her back.
‘Stay.’
I want Charmian with me so she can share with me not only my worry but my joy. For joy must be spoken aloud and witnessed. With her beside me I’ve loved this boy, delighting in each new word as he tastes it, rolling it between his lips as he begins to discern the shape of the world. Leaning over, I check beneath his pillow for the small bottle of Nile water that is always hidden there for his protection. In his sleep, one small fist grasps the gleaming bulia amulet around his neck. I want the gods to spin a cloak around him to shield him from the eyes and evils of the world, from sickness and age and from jealous men.
My thighs are damped and chafed. There is a bite mark upon my shoulder. I hope I gave a good performance of desire. Power must be satisfied. I took Caesar’s gifts and the victory he bought for me but there is always a cost. And only I can pay it. My brother Ptolemy died. My sister is sentenced to death, and thousands of Egyptians are now dust in the desert. This is the price of the dead, that I must lie there and pay Caesar with my flesh. I use my body to buy respite for Egypt from Roman greed. I am the mother not only of this boy, but of a country. And this is what a queen does. A king does not have to lie on his back and pretend his pleasure.
I look at Charmian and for a moment I envy her. She loves a man and he loves her back. She can choose to give him her body or not. Their affection is simple and uncomplicated and only involves one another. There is no transaction, only love. I will never be able to give myself to a man where there is not something to be gained for Egypt. It would be reckless. A pregnant queen risks death in childbed just like ordinary women. When Caesarion was in my womb, I watched all the courtiers whisper and plot, wondering if I would survive. Sex with a man is a calculation that I must assess as carefully as the taxes due to my treasuries. I will never be able to love and desire a man just for himself. That freedom is not for me.
I wake in the morning to find Charmian is gone. A surge of worry pulses through me. She is always here. Is she ill? Has something happened to Caesarion? I call out for her and in a moment she’s beside me.
‘What is it? Why weren’t you here?’ I demand.
‘I beg your forgiveness, great queen.’
I look at her and can see that there is something troubling her.
‘Tell me?’ I ask.
She hesitates. ‘Apollodorus’s sister has come from Sicily.’
‘A social visit? How pleasant.’
Her face is tight with anxiety. Impatience pricks at me.
‘Speak, what is wrong?’
Charmian takes a breath, then says, ‘She brings gold. She wants to buy his freedom.’
I laugh. That a farmer could give me enough gold to buy what I do not choose to sell.
‘She will not leave. She insists on seeing you, great and worthy queen.’
Charmian’s face is pale and tight with worry. I’m irritated that a farmer’s daughter has disturbed the peace of my morning.
‘And what does Apollodorus say?’
‘He’s furious. And tells her to leave.’
I relent on hearing his loyalty towards me. ‘We will hear her petition, for Apollodorus’s sake.’
When I am dressed, I go out into the garden and sit in the shade of a pomegranate tree. The sky is watery blue with scribbles of birds like inky hieroglyphs. After a few minutes, Charmian and Apollodorus appear with a young woman. She is pinched and thin, with the same dark hair and brown eyes as her brother. Her feet are dusty, and she fiddles with a leather bag tied around her waist.
‘I beg your mercy, great queen,’ says Apollodorus. ‘I ordered her to leave.’ He looks at his sister, his voice pleading. ‘Return to Sicily, Tulia.’
‘I can’t, not without you,’ says Tulia with a flash of temper. ‘Queen Cleopatra—’
Apollodorus flinches with barely concealed rage and interrupts her. ‘Do not speak. You do not have permission to address the Pharaoh.’
Tulia opens her mouth to speak again and then closes it again. Her eyes are full of fire but she looks exhausted and worn down.
‘You may speak, girl. I would not grant this privilege but I am grown fond of your brother. Why have you come to us?’ I say.
She kneels at my feet – not the usual Roman way, but she is Sicilian, I suppose.
‘My father is now dead. I have no other brothers. My mother is old and sick. There is no one to run the family farm. Apollodorus was taken as a slave in war ten years ago. I beg you now to return him to us. I will pay for his freedom.’
She brandishes a bag of coins at her waist.
‘I pity you for your hardship. But you cannot buy what is not for sale. He belongs to me. Now leave us. Do not return.’
She looks at me with hatred and blinks back tears, opening her mouth to speak.
‘Do not speak again. I have gifted you with profound kindness by allowing you into our presence. If you were not his sister, then I’d have had you whipped and sent away.’
Apollodorus puts his hand upon her arm and half drags, half carries her away. From the other end of the garden, I can hear her shouting and him hissing at her to be quiet. A pomegranate drops to the ground at my feet, bursting when it falls, spilling its guts onto the earth, bloody and oozing.
‘If I see her again, I will have her killed, not whipped,’ I say. ‘Make sure her brother knows this.’
Charmian bows, nods.
All around me the slaves are preparing the villa for the party. It must be splendid beyond Rome’s imaginings, for then they will no longer wonder why Caesar has given me this honour. Caesar has lent me the villa, but I’ve already altered it according to my own designs. I did not ask either his permission or opinion on the changes, and I paid for all the improvements myself, using workman brought from Alexandria. I do not trust the skill of Roman craftsmen; I’ve seen their shoddy statues and ugly houses.
The villa is situated on what is considered the wrong side of the Tiber, but I am sure that within three months, all of Rome will be mimicking my designs and searching for houses nearby. I glance around the room to where the finest artists in the Hellenic world are finishing stencils of budding nymphs. On the opposite wall, Hatshepsut hunts wild fowl amongst the lush marshes of the Nile. They are so exquisitely rendered that now, in the trance-like flicker of the candles, the nymphs appear to dance and the Nile marsh reeds quiver as a lurking heron eyes the speckle-bellied fish that flick through blue waters. Just beyond the windows lie the vast gardens where soft lawns are edged with torches, the wobbling flames reflected in a series of recently completed rills and pools, stretching on and on down to the river. I can just make out the spreading arms of a grove of cedars, black in the dark, from where the song of a nightjar echoes. I’ve created a world with no borders or edges, the boundaries between inside and outside, day and dusk have been removed. This is a realm of the unreal: Rome and not Rome, a piece of Alexandria transplanted like a dream where anything might happen.
The mosaic laid into the floor displays the Egyptian and Roman gods feasting together, a divine union. Isis wears an emerald necklace, but the beads are not tile or fired glass but real jewels. Every time anyone treads upon it, I observe with wry amusement as Apollodorus winces, for it was he who settled the bill. I hear the low murmur of the slaves as they prepare the feast, the metal clang as gold and silver plates are set upon tables, the ceramic knock of wine flagons. I take a deep breath. I’ve always liked best the moment right before the party, when I can imagine the rooms filled with guests like future ghosts. Soon the villa will be brimming with the great men of Rome talking and drinking, but beneath the surface laughter and smiles, the murmur of plotting and intrigue will run under the conversation like a hidden stream beneath rock.
I’m supposed to wait here for them, knowing that a short distance away my sister is waiting to die. I might hate her for her betrayal, and yet I do not want her to suffer. I still remember the girl she was before. My blood fizzes in my veins. I feel only dread. I know she must die, but in my mind I don’t see the woman who betrayed me, but the little girl I loved. The baby who wrapped her tiny fingers in my hair. Her milk-soft smell. I do not want to see her humiliated and degraded for the entertainment of a Roman mob.
‘Charmian,’ I say, summoning her to my side. ‘Bring me items of yours. We’re going into the city.’
‘No, my queen. You can’t. It’s too dangerous for you.’
‘Not if you dress me carefully as a fellow slave.’ Her face is still painted with horror. ‘We’ll take Apollodorus,’ I add, relenting.
My two friends are furious with me. I hear their simmering anger but neither dares to voice it, which suits me fine. Once I am ready, we venture out into the city streets. Rome after sundown is the kingdom of whores and thieves. The air is filled with the thudding of drums and the slap of soldiers’ feet across the cobbles is so loud that I feel it in my chest as a second heartbeat. For once, the road is cleared of all the usual night-time traffic of wagons and oxen while the regular slanging match between carters as they get stuck in jams and the housewives yelling at them from windows to be quiet is replaced by the caterwauling of an immense crowd. It seethes all the way along Palatine Hill and into the distance, ten men deep. They’ve been standing since dusk, clutching banners, waving flags, swigging from flagons of wine and boasting of Roman victories, tales that grow more improbable with each rendition. A song rises up amongst the crowd, tossed from side to side like a ball. Men of Rome, keep close your women, for here’s a bald adulterer. Lo! Now rides Caesar in triumph as he rode Queen Cleopatra. It was accompanied by jeers and thrusting. I snort in contempt – was this the best the supposedly great empire could muster? All the same, I feel Apollodorus tense beside me; I know his hand has gone to his knife. A man, barely able to stuff his gut into his toga, nudges me and leaning close, hisses in my ear, ‘What do you think of our poetry, pretty one?’
‘I prefer the Greeks,’ I reply.
He roars with laughter.
‘Only because you’ve never been fucked by a Roman,’ he shouts, grabbing his crotch. I turn away in disgust and push my way further into the crowd to escape, hearing him call after me with a series of increasingly elaborate obscene suggestions. I doubt that a man of his immense proportions could achieve any of the contortions he is suggesting we try. A moment later, I hear a groan and I know that Apollodorus has knocked him to the ground.
This triumph is not only over Caesar’s enemies but over night itself. Rome is lit with a hundred thousand torches, blazing along the route with such brightness it is as though the power of the empire encompassed the heavens too and it can order the stars to fall to earth in neat rows. Despite the press of bodies, the evening is cool for autumn and I tug my cloak close around my shoulders and low over my face.
‘We can leave, go back to the villa,’ whispers Charmian.
‘No,’ I reply.
I try not to succumb to the heavy feeling lodged deep in my stomach. Let it be quick. Don’t let her suffer. My eyes water from the smoke of the vast bonfires lit on the top of every hill, where they blaze with tongues of scarlet, spitting volleys of sparks upwards like red shooting stars. Trumpeters call out long bright notes into the night air. Other noises are tossed out into the darkness, feral and unruly. I watch a massive lion leading a company of leopards. They patrol the street eyeing the crowd, a slave strolling behind ready with his whip. A few of the drunken men at the front poke at them with their laurel boughs, yelling and then cringing back with frightened laughter when the lion roars, ready to pounce, only distracted by the snap of the slave’s whip across its haunches. Next come legionaries carrying standards decorated with the scenes of battle and bloodied enemies writhing in agony and defeat. They march for what seems like hours in an endless procession of men, the forest of thin wooden spears like the skinny trunks of a winter forest.
The wagons are decorated with dozens of flags dyed in crimson and purple, visible by the blazing lanterns. On top of each wagon is constructed a platform where a marvelous scene is laid out. There’s a cart bearing a model of the Pharos lighthouse, its light shining out across silver painted waters, where toy ships bob in the harbour amongst cresting waves of white plumes of feathers. A slave works a set of bellows to make the silken sails flutter in the wind. At the foot of the lighthouse is a golden island formed of treasure: spoils from the war, gleaming statues and silver plates and jewelled goblets that glint in the lights of the torches like tiny suns. The crowd gasps and screams with delight to see such plunder. I wince for I know that this gold was bought with blood.
Then, out of the gloom emerges a seemingly endless train of prisoners, bony and ragged with their arms bound, legs of each knotted to the prisoner before and behind so that they stumble along, half-tripping. When one man falls sprawling upon the hard ground he cannot rise, for the column marches on and the unfortunate soul is dragged across the cobbles screaming, leaving his skin behind in a wet slick.
And then I see her. She is on the last wagon, draped in a fine linen sheath so sheer that I can see the frail rigging of her ribs. Her skin has been oiled and glistens in the torch light. Around her neck she displays a gleaming chest plate, brighter than the stars above and studded with lapis and rubies. The thin bones of her wrists and ankles are manacled with gold chains but she does not tremble, only raises her chin upwards and dares the crowd to heckle her in her moment of wretched humiliation. I want to shout at the crowd: voyeurs and villains all. The night swells with music, the banging of drums and the smack of sandals on stone.
Charmian takes my hand, and together we wait for the chants and jeers, obscene songs blown forth like foul breath. And yet, after a minute I realise that the crowd has fallen silent. No one heckles or cheers or hurls handfuls of filth at her. It is like the stillness before dawn. The drums fade and there is only the sound of marching feet and then, I hear mutters of unease. They like to watch their enemies murdered, to see them writhe as the bones in their throats are crushed, and the whites of their eyes turn speckled and bloody. But they do not want this for her. As I stare at her, I can see that she senses it. Their lack of bloodlust.
The wagon stops beside us. She surveys the crowd, and for a moment her gaze rests on me. I look at her and she stares back at me. Neither of us smiles. I am here for her, my sister, despite all she has done. There’s a jolt, and the wagon moves on and she’s gone.
The procession continues on up the Capitoline Hill and to the temple of Jupiter. I see the wagon pause for a moment before the pillars of the temple, and then it continues on its way. Relief pours through me, warm as heated oil. They cannot kill her tonight. Not here, not like this. Satisfied, I turn to Charmian and Apollodorus. ‘Let us return to the villa. We must be ready.’
Within an hour the villa is crammed with guests like flies around a rotting carcass. I watch concealed on the upper gallery as the men try not to marvel at frescoes so finely rendered they appear as a window into the boundless world of the gods. The scent of roses drifting inside from the garden does not mask their stench of stale sweat and envy.
These great men of Rome do not fool me. They finger the linens estimating their cost and I see more than one senator slide his napkin into his pocket once he’s dabbed his mouth. At other parties in Rome, guests are obliged to bring their own. Not at Cleopatra’s. If only I could win them over, one napkin at a time. I’ve insisted that the best wine is served to all guests and not the cheaper variety to the lesser men. They may gossip about me and suspect me of all manner of wanton misdeeds, but they will not accuse me of parsimony. I know that many of them have only come to gawp at me and then scurry home, eager to spread lascivious gossip like a spray of cow shit upon a ploughed field.
I’m fidgeting with unease. Caesar isn’t here yet. He called at home for a little while, and then he’ll come as guest of honour. I must assemble myself before he arrives; be easy and charming, hide my discomfort. I look down upon the long dining room below. The walls are painted with trees so that the room inside seems to dissolve into the garden beyond. I watch the politicians in their togas lying side-by-side on the sofas, like landed trout lined up on the river bank, shoving morsels of food into gaping mouths.
It’s time to let Rome see me. Charmian signals to the musicians; they change the song and play a different melody, not one of Rome but Egypt. At once, the chatter changes key too; everyone waits expectant, looking for me. I slip down the stairs at the end of the landing and out into the far side of the gardens, unseen by the guests. There, a hundred slaves dressed as nymphs are waiting for me, each bearing a torch. On Apollodorus’s signal, they process before me, lighting the way. I pass between an avenue of statues, Roman and Egyptian gods. The final two, leading into the vast hall where the guests wait for me, are of Venus and Isis, they flank me on either side. The marble is bleached bone in the semi-darkness; the smell of honeysuckle, mint and thyme mingles with the scent of burning pine logs and sweat. The music rises, and the guests cease their conversations. I step forward, lit by a thousand torches, and linger for a moment between the stone goddesses, allowing the men and women of Rome to see me at last.
As I walk slowly forward, I notice a woman staring at me. Everyone stares, but there is something about her expression, at once intelligent and grave. She has large grey eyes, and she doesn’t smile. Her face isn’t beautiful, and even in this light I can see the lacework of fine lines around her eyes – she’s a woman who’s laughed a great deal. Strung around her neck is a pale ball that shimmers and snares the light, the moon on a string. Then I see that it’s a pearl and at once, I know who she is.
Servilia.