Page 19 of Cleopatra

19

CLEOPATRA

I recline on a sofa in the first tablinum, lit by a hundred wavering candles, a scroll dangling between my fingers, unread. The air is heady with the scent of beeswax and night herbs drifting in from the garden just beyond the open windows. Charmian is slotted beside me. There’s no one else here, we’re as we were when girls, lying nose to nose, fingertips touching.

‘Why do we stay here? You’ve persuaded Caesar to acknowledge his son.’ She stifles a sigh and asks, ‘Can we go home, my queen?’

I look at her and smile. Her forehead is creased with longing, she pines for Alexandria. The sea and the clear blue air.

‘Soon, dearest one. When I leave, he forgets me. I must give him something more, so he remembers me. Only then will we be safe.’

This is true but what I don’t confide is that I’m also not ready to leave him yet. I want our son to know his father, not merely through his deeds and renown but as a man. I loved my father, for all his flaws. I don’t want Caesarion to share only a name with his.

Within a few minutes, I realise from the steady huff of Charmian’s breath that she’s snoozing in the drowsy heat of the fire. I must have drifted off myself, as when I awake, it’s to find that Caesar himself is come, and is watching us, smiling, his expression tender. I nudge Charmian, and her eyes blink open and on seeing Caesar she immediately stands up and leaves the room. Caesar comes and settles in the spot still warm from Charmian’s body. He lies beside me, his fingers stroke my hair, trace my lips, my chin. I allow myself to relax, soften into him for a breath. I’m always on guard, watchful, but here in Caesar’s arms, I am safe for a moment.

‘You will declare me a friend of Rome?’ I ask softly.

‘You are this Roman’s friend,’ he says and kisses me.

I stiffen; this is not what I mean, and he knows it. My father gave away Cyprus in order to be declared a friend of Rome. I have given Caesar something no less valuable and now I need the title in return. To call me ‘friend’ is to declare that Rome shall not seek to absorb Egypt into its empire for as long as I rule. I will find a way to persuade him to name me so. I know that Caesar is fond of me. He desires and admires me, recognising his own ambition reflected back like Narcissus at the mirror pool. Yet, his affection is neither strong enough nor blind enough for him to give me what I want unless it’s also expedient for him and for Rome. These limits do not hurt me or wound my pride for I understand the edges of his affection, and mine is no different. My own desires come second to what is good for Egypt.

Caesar is subdued and does not speak for several minutes. His thoughts are opaque to me – but I can tell that something is nagging at him, a pebble in his shoe.

‘Rome despises all kings,’ he says at last.

At first, I think he’s telling me that he can’t give me the title of friend, but then I realise it isn’t me he’s talking about at all.

‘They killed their last king,’ he adds, half to himself.

‘Yes, but long ago,’ I reply.

And then with a slow realisation, I understand what he wants. He longs for the power I have. As I examine his face, I know what I must do: voice his own desires. He will not confess this desire to Servilia or another Roman. Only a queen can understand the longing of a man to be king. He is halfafraid to speak aloud his own greatest desire, so I shall say it for him. This will be my gift to him; to show him that Rome is ready for a king, so long as that king is called Caesar. He has been to Egypt, he has seen how we rule. Kingship is the only feat he has not yet achieved. I can see how it nags at him. If I help him become king, then he’ll owe me a debt of gratitude sufficient to give me what I want.

I hesitate for a moment, then prop myself up on my elbows and meet his eye.

‘What’s the difference between you and a king? You have the power of a king. What is “king” that Caesar is not? It is but another word, and a smaller one at that?’

As I speak, I see the longing in his face. He’s conquered half the world, killed a million men, and is draped in accolades and adulation, and yet still he hankers for more. I understand his yearning, more than anyone in the world. I killed my brother and defeated my sister to win my throne. He watches me intently, lit by his desire. I lick dry lips and continue.

‘Rome despised kings long ago. But those kings were tyrants. Caesar is no tyrant. He is bountiful and just. All of Rome loves Caesar.’

Caesar looks at me narrowly and gives a short laugh. ‘All of Rome does not love Caesar. Most of Rome loves Caesar, the rest is merely afraid of him.’

He is silent, thinking. I can hear the click and whirr of his thoughts like a death-watch beetle in old oak beams. I clear my throat and say carefully, ‘No one can be loved universally. Such a thing is not possible. But do enough men in Rome love you? I would hazard so, but you are quite right, we cannot trust to guesses. A man does not step out onto a new-laid bridge across a stream without trying the plank first to see if it’s steady and can bear his weight. Why not test the people, see if they’re ready to accept a king?’

He stares at me, now intrigued. ‘It is not possible. Not here in Rome.’

Yet his voice lacks conviction, and I hear the note of hope, eager beneath the surface.

‘Have you not been declared dictator for life? That would be impossible for another man,’ I say.

I understand the stark difference between a dictator and a king: a dictator dies and turns to dust; a king’s son rules after his father’s death. Upstairs, our son sleeps. He will one day rule Egypt. Is it possible that he could also become king of Rome? I am dizzy at the thought. I had not dared to imagine such power for him, and yet it is not only power but danger – a foreign-born bastard king to rule over Rome. A voice whispers to me that they will never allow it. They will kill him first. Already there are those in Rome who hanker for my son’s death. Might this not make them more determined to murder him? My dizziness deepens to a sick feeling deep in the well of my stomach. Caesar has acknowledged our son, but he has not – as far as I know – made him his heir. The law here forbids it. Yet, laws can be made new for Caesar. There is heaviness deep in my belly, a tossing fear, reminding me how much our fate is bound to that of Caesar, for good or ill.

Yet the possibility of such power for my boy is too much to turn away from. I have never acted out of fear and I won’t start now. I will advise Caesar so as to advance the future of my son. Caesar watches me steadily. He’s greedy for more words, for me to tell him that what he wants is possible. I’ve finally said aloud that which he’s longed for in secret, thinking only alone in the dark. With my words, I’ve made it real, possible.

His ambition and his decisions are entirely his own. As I meet his gaze, I understand with a tug of sorrow that he has no fear for anyone other than himself. He does not worry about us for our own sakes or how his actions might ripple outward from himself. But this is the way of a king. It was mine too, before I had a son. Caesarion is ours, but truly, he belongs only to me. Caesar is fond of the boy, and amused by his likeness to himself, but his affection is selfish. He will not choose what is best for his son at the cost of his own good fortune. His love is brittle and shallow. He will not hold him when he sickens, for fear of sickening himself. This path that Caesar seeks poses not only possibility but also danger for our son; a danger that Caesar does not consider nor would make him hesitate for a moment, even if he sensed it. I feel some of my affection for Caesar dry out like damp sand in the desert sun. Yet, I must play my part: lover, confidante, advisor. It is what is best for Caesarion. I take a breath. Try not to picture my boy’s small form in the nursery, snoozing under his blankets, the pink upturned lip, the feathered lashes.

‘And how would Cleopatra suggest I discover if Rome is ready?’ asks Caesar, eager.

I shove my worries further down and think for a minute.

‘Is Lupercal soon? That’s a festival here in Rome, ribald and joyous?’

‘It is.’

‘Then, have someone offer you a crown before the crowd. A senator, white-haired and honest. Someone you trust absolutely.’

‘Marc Antony.’

I hesitate. Antony is loyal beyond reproach, but he is certainly not white-haired with wisdom, and I am yet to see him sober. Still, I defer to Caesar.

‘Antony then. He will offer you the crown, and the crowd will urge him to place it upon your head. But if you sense any reluctance or hesitation amongst them, you must demur and refuse it. They will love you for your modesty.’

‘I shall decline it,’ he declares, resolute. ‘And only accept it if they urge me with full-throated ardour.’

I smile, allowing him to take the idea on, have it become his own. He is picturing the scene, the crowd in the forum, their frenzied urging.

‘And it shall not be a crown of gold but instead a wreath of laurels,’ he says.

His eye is feverish in its brightness. He has never wanted me – nor, I suspect any man nor woman – as he wants this.

He takes my hand and kisses it. ‘You are to me as Venus is to Mars,’ he says.

He flatters me, but I pocket his compliments all the same. I enjoy his personal endearments, but I treasure his public declarations of regard. I am already transformed from Isis into the Roman Venus in her temple. My likeness sits on her dais, benevolent and beautiful, ready for all citizens of Rome to pay tribute.

I understand Caesar’s desire to be a king. And, for better or worse, it is my task to help him: that’s what he wants from me. I must pray to the gods to watch over my boy. That the ambitions of the father don’t wound the son. I remember the words of the soothsayer in Alexandria – that the fruit will outlive the tree – and am comforted. There is not only the possibility of danger for Caesarion, but also power and an empire.

And yet, after Caesar leaves me to return home, I find I cannot sleep. I am hot and restless, and when I rise early in the morning, my eyes are red-rimmed as the dawn sun.

It’s damp and the smell of rain is in the air. I do not like this cold season in Rome and it’s not only Charmian who pines for the steady warmth of home. I want to inhale the breeze scented with figs and date palms, not open drains. Charmian and Apollodorus have the slaves light fires in every room and toss herbs upon the flames. Now at least the smell of mint and thyme mingles with the scent of burning pine logs in the grate disguising the stench of the city. There are shouts and cries and then Iras enters, prostrating herself upon the floor as she says, ‘I beg forgiveness, great queen, but I couldn’t stop her.’

I see a tiny woman, bent in two like a windblown tree, her skin cracked as bark and her white hair in tight curls. She glares at me with black eyes: Apollodorus’s eyes.

‘I’m here for my son.’

She tosses a bag on the ground and gold coins spill out, rolling across the floor, tiny spinning suns.

Apollodorus strides forward, his face contorted in fear and anger. ‘Mother, you should not have come. The queen told my sister that coming here again would mean death.’

‘If you don’t come home, then I will die anyway. If she kills me, then it will be quicker,’ she snaps.

Apollodorus tries to take her outside, clasping her around her tiny waist. He’s several times her size, but he doesn’t want to hurt her and she wriggles free from his grasp and she turns to me, hissing.

‘They say that Apollodorus is one of your favourites. If that’s true, great queen, then let him go. Not for gold but friendship. There are no men left in our family. The farm goes to ruin, it falls away into the hillside and our neighbours steal our animals. His sister and her children will starve. We will have to sell them as slaves.’

‘Such things are unfortunate, but they happen every day. I am sorry for you,’ I say.

‘But not sorry enough to give him back to us,’ says the old woman, resigned. ‘I see that it isn’t true. They lie. For you do not love him. He is just a chattel slave like any other.’

Her voice is gnarled with disdain and flecks of spittle lodge in the corners of her mouth. She screws up her face and then glances away, as if she can’t bear to look upon me anymore.

Anger rises in me, and I turn to Apollodorus, my voice soft with fury. ‘Take her away from here. It is out of affection for you that I do not have her whipped and crucified.’

‘I thank you for your mercy, great queen,’ he answers. Then, as the old woman shouts and mutters, he hustles her away, braving the blows that rain down on his face and arms. I sit beside the fire, but the chill doesn’t leave me and the scent of burning incense is bitter and catches in my throat. I’m irritable, and even when the slaves bring Caesarion to me, I can’t recover my good humour. Apollodorus wisely keeps away from me. Charmian tries to read to me, but I tell her to leave me alone. I look into the fire, but in the flames, I just see the old woman’s face, her eyes black with hate.

Fulvia has responded quickly to my summons and I’m grateful. It does not matter that it’s more likely out of curiosity than obedience. She enters the chamber looking about her with shrewd dark eyes. The customary refreshments are set upon the table. Fulvia doesn’t even glance at them, she just watches me steadily, interested as to the reason that I have specifically asked her to come.

‘Are we to be friends, great queen?’ she asks. ‘For if a queen orders friendship, then it must be granted.’

There is no warmth in her voice.

‘I hope we are to be friends. Allies, certainly.’

Now, she is intrigued. I gesture for her to sit on the sofa opposite me and I take a seat myself. I look at her, the polished curls, the bridal flush on her cheeks and the girlish pout. I’m not fooled. I know what this woman is: clever and ruthless. She is a knife secreted in a pretty sheath.

I tell Fulvia of Caesar’s intention on Lupercal. ‘I urge you to persuade Antony to agree to his suggestion.’

She studies me with those clever black eyes.

‘You would be married to the proxy of the king,’ I say softly.

Fulvia’s cheeks are pinker still, flushed with the glow of anticipated power. She does not answer just yet, but I am confident that she will do as I ask. Not out of any love or loyalty towards me, but because of her own desires. Sometimes as women our power is indirect, we must persuade men to move in the direction we choose; they are the ships but we are the breeze that fills their sails and pushes them across the oceans. Fulvia meets my eye and I know that she understands this too.

I signal to Charmian, who brings me a box. I unfasten it, and removing the jewel within, I present it to Fulvia, laying it on her lap.

‘A hairpin set with jewels from Egypt. As exquisite as it is sharp,’ I say.

She inclines her neck forward and I slide it into the twist of her hair. The rubies gleam amongst her dark hair, bright as drops of blood. We are allies now indeed.

*

That afternoon, I walk through the gardens alone, ordering the slaves to leave me. My head aches, and the feeling of prickly irritability has stayed with me, like a fever in my soul. As I walk to the fountain, I hear the sound of weeping. The sound mingles with the trickle of the water. I’m about to turn back – I have no interest in the crying of slaves – when I see that it is Charmian. She’s huddled on a bench beside the water, her face puffy and blotched. Hearing me, she looks up in surprise and hurriedly wipes her eyes and nose on her tunic, leaving a trail of snot. Her eyes are red and swollen.

‘I’m sorry, great queen. I did not mean for you to find me.’

I look at her for a moment. Her sudden sorrow separates her from me and for the first time I do not know what to say to her. Am I her queen or her friend? Then, I sit, and put a tentative arm on her shoulder. At once, she wriggles closer and sobs on my lap, her shoulders shaking as I stroke her hair.

‘What is it, my love?’ I ask. ‘What grieves you?’

‘Apollodorus.’

‘Why, have you fought?’ I ask. I have no experience with lovers’ quarrels.

‘No. He is despondent. Filled with grief and despair, and rages against fate and his helplessness. He was taken as a slave in war. Then gifted to you. He does not own his own life and he accepts this. There’s nothing he can do. He can’t leave you. He loves you and does not ask to be freed. But, he can’t look after his mother or widowed sisters. His mother will die, she’s too old to be bought. His sister and her children will be sold as slaves.’

Her words fall away into sobs. I stroke her hair, it’s soggy with tears and sweat.

‘You can’t want me to free him. Then he’ll leave you.’

She looks up at me, her face shiny with tears.’But I do want you to free him. I love him. And love is freedom. He will leave me and I will be happy for him and my heart will break.’

I stare at her, unsettled by the force of her love for this man. I do not care for Caesar like this. My affection is a pleasant warmth.

‘If you really want me to free him, I will consider your request,’ I say. ‘You’ve never asked me for anything before.’

‘I do,’ she says. ‘I love him. Free him. Let him go.’

I’m preoccupied with Charmian’s appeal and relieved that my day is strewn with visitors to distract me, some more agreeable than others. I understand that they are all come to peer at the Egyptian queen with dread and delight as they would a tiger or elephant dragged back to Rome. And yet, I need their favour, so I endure their insolent curiosity. I hear the bustle of arrival, and then Iras enters, announcing the newest visitors. I signal for them to be brought into my presence and the two women enter. The day is cool and a fine mist of drizzle falls, and both wear soft woollen shawls draped over their stola. Clodia is baubled with jewels, Servilia wears none at all. I am pleased to see Clodia, for she is entertaining and full of mischief, but I had not invited Servilia to my villa, and Clodia pushes the bounds of civility by bringing her along like a flagon of olives or a present of silks. I admire her, and yet, I know that Caesar loves her in a way that he does not me and her presence irritates me like stiff leather on new sandals. She is the woman who he has adored since before I was born. His affection towards her seemingly never faltered in all those years. I examine her face, trying to understand the attraction, the allure that has captivated him beyond all others, but apart from the soft intelligence of her eyes, I cannot see anything remarkable about her face. Then, I do not expect to. Beauty fades, and Caesar did not love Servilia for hers.

She says, ‘Caesar is building a library. He says it will rival that at Alexandria.’

I laugh. ‘It’s not possible, but I always admire Caesar’s ambition.’

Servilia gives a sigh full of longing. ‘I heard the originals of Plato and Aristotle are in Alexandria. Will you lend them to Rome?’

‘It is not a loan when an item is not returned. Once those volumes entered Rome, my love should not let them leave again. Caesar may keep my heart but not my books.’

Servilia studies me for a moment in silence, shuffling her thoughts like a sheaf of papers, before asking softly, ‘Does he truly keep your heart, great queen?’

I do not reply. The affairs of my heart are my own. And the awkwardness of my silence is cut short as Charmian enters, bringing with her Caesarion, who is clutching his toy crocodile and sobbing.

‘He wanted only you, madam,’ she says, apologetic. ‘You said to bring him to you if we couldn’t settle him.’

I hold open my arms, grateful for the interruption. He climbs onto my lap, and I play with the silk of his hair.

‘What’s the matter, little one?’ I ask, as his cheeks are flushed crimson.

He doesn’t answer, only chews his fists, saliva trickling down his chin. I pick him up but he twists away, crying. His distress is a bruise, and as if sensing my unhappiness, Servillia looks at me, saying, ‘May I try to help, great queen?’

I study her, searching for some agenda, but see none other than a mother offering her support. I nod and she comes over to us and kneels on the floor beside us. She puts her face down close to his, and smiles, covering her hands and peeking at him. Then a moment later she produces a feather from her sleeve and tickles him with it.

‘Is your knee tickly?’ she asks. ‘Or your nose?’ As she plays, she smiles and her face is suddenly bright with warmth and mischief.

Caesarion stops grizzling and giggles.

‘You’re a mother,’ I say.

‘Yes, and a grandmother,’ replies Servilia. ‘See? His cheeks are swollen, and he dribbles. Poor babe is teething. Have the slave bring cloves, honey and a pestle.’

I nod to Charmian, who hurries out.

Servilia continues to play with Caesarion, tickling first him and then his toy crocodile, which she pretends is snapping at her fingers. Clodia moves to sit with us and joins in the game. Charmian returns with the cloves and Servilia begins to grind up the mixture. When she has finished, she places a little on her finger, pretending to smear it on the crocodile’s mouth, saying, ‘He has such sore gums, we’ll make him feel better. But he’s a little afraid. Can you be a big, brave boy and show Croc that he has nothing to be scared of?’

With only a little reluctance, Caesarion nods and obediently opens his mouth and lets Servilia gently spread the concoction over his swollen gums. She smiles at him and as she does, she looks younger, a woman full of life and fun. I feel the last of my instinctive hostility towards her begin to trickle away. I wonder what it would be like to have such women as Servilia and Clodia as friends. I push the thought away. I do not have friends other than Charmian, and I am not foolish enough to forget that she is also my slave.

Caesarion takes the pestle and starts to smear the mix all over his toy, muttering words of tender comfort, and the three of us glance at one another. We are connected for a second. It’s a moment of easiness where I could almost believe us friends, or that it might be possible if we were different women, these different times.

It’s apparent that the medicine has eased Caesarion’s discomfort, and he suddenly looks tired, smudged with sleep. I gesture to a nursery slave, who takes him from me to settle him for a nap. I watch him go, feeling a tug of love. A moment later, Clodia rises and excuses herself, taking her leave in what is clearly a careful pretext. Servilia and I stare at each other with open curiosity. I remember her from when I was a girl. She was kind and clever and already Caesar’s lover. And he loves you still, I whisper in my mind. His affection is split between us, do you resent me for reducing your portion? But then perhaps love does not divide and dwindle but swells and multiplies. I think of Charmian and her selfless affection for Apollodorus. I wonder how such love would feel.

I dismiss the slaves, for we need no audience. I pour her a glass of wine with my own hands and give it to her. She drinks it all in one long swallow, and I realise to my surprise that she’s nervous. I wonder what’s troubling her. She bites her lip, hesitates. The easiness of a few minutes earlier has entirely gone. Then at last she says in a low, clear voice, ‘We are tethered to one another by our love of Julius.’

Any other woman who dared to suggest that we shared a bond, I’d dismiss in contempt and anger, outraged at the insult, and yet there is something about Servilia’s sweet gravity that gives me pause. I cannot dislike her.

‘I have loved him, wanted only what is best and good for him, for thirty years. That has never altered,’ she continues.

She pauses, as though waiting for me to speak, to reassure her of my love for Caesar. I do not. My regard for him is my own, not to be pored over even by her.

‘We are not enemies but allied through our affections. What is good and right for him is also in our interests.’

‘Your voice suggests a question, but you ask none,’ I say.

‘Be careful,’ she pleads. ‘This is Rome. You sharpen his ambition, where it needs no whetting. We both want what is best for him.’

‘Yes, but perhaps we don’t agree on what that is.’ I pause and examine her closely. ‘Do you ask me to return to Egypt?’

‘I would never presume upon such a request.’

Though I’m certain she will not weep when I depart.

‘I only ask you not to stoke his desires and ambition. I ask this not out of jealousy but love,’ she says, a note of pleading still in her voice.

In that moment, I pity her. She is soggy with love. Where I admire Caesar, she needs him. My affection for him is sincere yet it is also tempered by caution. I know what he is, and that Caesar’s greatest passion is neither me nor Servilia but himself and his own restless need for power. I suspect that she knows this too yet is devoted to him anyway. Her love for him is absolute, and it has softened her reason. I turn and walk from the room without another word, leaving her alone.

I return to my chamber and lie on the bed amongst the silks and cushions, but I don’t sleep. A bee thuds gently against the ceiling, and I watch it for several minutes, its futile determination. I go to the table and fetch a wooden box, simply inlaid with ivory and ebony. Then, I summon Charmian and Apollodorus to my chamber. They stand before me side-byside, not touching, and yet I can feel the connection between them, the tautness of an invisible thread. Charmian’s face is still pale and swollen. Apollodorus looks pinched and drawn. Neither of them speaks. I look at them both and then open the small wooden box at my side and take out a scroll and pass it to him, saying slowly, ‘Apollodorus, I grant you your freedom. This is a gift. You are at liberty to return to your family and home. Go with our love and our blessing.’

He stares at me, as though not quite believing what he’s heard. Then, he looks at the scroll and, reading it, sees that it is true. My lawyer has drawn up the deed, declaring he’s a freedman, and giving him back his family name. Apollodorus passes it to Charmian, who reads it in silence. She glances up, her face a contradiction of pain and joy, and then she begins to sob, shaking as hard as if she had mosquito fever. Apollodorus holds her close, and she smiles up at him through her tears.

‘You will go and be happy and think of me sometimes,’ she says softly. ‘But only if the thought makes you happy, for I cannot bear you to be sad.’

I don’t hear his reply, for he hugs her close, whispers in her ear, and she buries her face against his chest. I feel hot, my palms sticky, and yet my mouth is dry. I both want this next moment over, and for it to never come at all. I force myself to speak, to keep my voice from shaking.

‘Charmian, we have been together since our births, an hour apart. You are the sister of my heart. I grant you your freedom and gift you a new name.’

I take a second deed out of the box and pass it to her, saying, ‘Your name as a freedwoman is Charmian Cleopatra Beloved. You are free to go with Apollodorus. To marry him and have his children with our love and our blessing.’

In her shock, she stops crying and stares at me in confusion. I can see that she is too surprised to speak. Apollodorus, realising it too, goes down on his knees before me, in gratitude, tugging her down beside him.

‘We thank you, great queen. For your love and generosity.’

I wave away his words for I do not want to be thanked. The pain that I feared now starts to build in my chest. I fear it will overwhelm me, a vast wave over a stone, and Cleopatra does not cry.

‘Go,’ I say. ‘I only ask that you leave at once.’

Charmian rises and flings her arms around me. She kisses my cheeks, but I can’t look at her for I can’t bear to see my own pain reflected in her eyes or worse, that I don’t see it.

‘I’ll miss you,’ she whispers. ‘Every single day.’

‘Go now,’ I say.

Apollodorus takes her hand and tugs her away from me, as though half afraid I will change my mind. When they have gone, I sit, slumped on the bed. The room is empty. I am alone. I have never loved Caesar or any man how I love Charmian. And for her, I have committed a selfless act, perhaps the only one in my life. There is no power to be gained for me by granting her freedom, there is only pain. And yet I would do it a hundred times over. I sit and listen to the chattering of the starlings outside the window, but other than the noise of the birds, it’s absolutely quiet. I can almost hear the cracking of my own heart.

That night I cannot sleep and I wander through the gardens in the dark. Slaves trail after me, sticky with sleep, and I dismiss them, wanting only to be alone. I try to take comfort in the knowledge that Charmian will be happy. She will have an ordinary life – a husband who is kind and who loves her and, in time, children. I picture the farm in Sicily, the vineyards and silver olive groves where their unborn children will play. Perhaps they will have daughters who’ll race scorpions beneath the lemon trees. It must be enough for me to know that she will be content and delight in simple joys. And yet, there is an ache in my chest that will not ease. It hurts like a physical pain and I want to walk and run to outpace it but I know that I cannot. The loss will follow me, and I cannot shake myself free however fast I run.

The night is restless, and I am not the only one awake; birds swirl, flitting from tree to tree in dark clouds when they should be roosting. The river rushes in the distance and the air is cool on my skin. I shiver, drawing my shawl tight around my shoulders. The wind lifts the leaves and catches the fountains so that I’m spattered with the spray. My forehead is damp despite the chill and I can smell my own sweat, sharp and animal. There’s a restlessness in the air, a hum, and glancing up, I see the moon is smothered by clouds. I realise I’m holding my breath, and then, suddenly, there’s a snap of lightning, and the garden is illuminated for a moment, the statues of the gods bright and white across the gardens for a heartbeat. And then a storm snarls up out of nowhere, the snaps of lightning are the clash of armies, and the sky is teeming with cries, souls of the restless dead. The slaves rush to me, their faces full of fear, hurrying me towards the house. I try to offer words of comfort to them, but I can’t be heard above the clatter of celestial armies in the heavens above. The rain starts, a sudden sluicing, and in moments, I’m wet to the skin. I walk back to the villa, glancing upwards, my face dripping. There was no warning of this storm, it has blown across the city in a whorl of wind and rain and white light.

I stand on the veranda and look out at the flashes across Rome, the rents in the sky. The slaves strip off my sodden clothes and redress me. From above, I hear Caesarion wake and begin to cry. His whimpering is a tug I feel in my chest and, shaking off the slaves, I hurry up the stairs to him, stumbling in my haste. He sits in his crib, his face slick with tears and snot. Iras reaches for him, but I shoo her away and pluck him from his bed myself and clutch him to my chest. I can feel the rapid stutter of his heart against my own. He is warm and damp with tears and sleep, and I blanket his soft head with kisses. He burrows into my neck, and I inhale his soft, milky scent. His small body trembles with fear and rage at being woken by the storm. Iras comes to find us, her face grey.

‘This storm isn’t natural. It’s the raging of the gods,’ she whispers.

‘These paltry Roman gods can’t hurt us,’ I soothe. ‘Let them spill out their rage, like milk onto wool.’

Iras’ face stays tight with anxiety, and Caesarion sobs on my shoulder. I sway, and rub Caesarion’s back, feeling the downy skin of his back beneath my fingertips. At last, his sobs slow and falter into nothing and he becomes heavy in my arms. I don’t lay him down straightaway but let him sleep against me, even though he’s stout enough now that my arms ache. I am empty when I’m not holding him. All must be well, it must, for I have a secret that no one else knows.

As I think about it, I feel once more a flickering in my belly like the coil of a leaf turning over and over in the wind. I clasp one son in my arms, as my unborn son quickens in my womb. All shall be well, for I will make it so for these two boys, the one in my arms and the one yet to be born. My joy is muffled, I experience it through a veil of fear and loss. As the rain continues to fall, I feel a seeping grey dread slide across my mind like a sea fog on a damp day that will not lift.