Page 4 of Cleopatra

4

CLEOPATRA

T he sacred Buchis bull and my father die on the same night. The aged bull has been sickening for a while. His perfect white flanks are hollowed, his breath rattles and his black face is speckled with grey. The priests fan him and incense drives away the flies, but even so, the bull-god dies, sloughing off his mortal form, ready for the next. A few hours later, my father joins him in the field of reeds. His face bloated and hands clawing at the air, clutching at life until the end. Yet, it says much about my father that many more people mourn for the bull than for poor Auletes. Both were living gods, but the bull was not damaged by his extravagance and bad decisions. The bull was beautiful and beloved. My father was loved only by me.

I’m winded by my grief, it’s a sudden punch to my belly. In my eighteen years, I have not felt a pain such as this. I never knew my mother. I assume she was one of the nameless slave girls who drifted through my father’s bed, tumbling over each other like dry leaves. No one spoke of her. Or they didn’t to me. She was no more worthy of mentioning than one of the cats which spew out litters beneath the grain stores. Only, she did not spit out kittens but a princess. Perhaps she died while birthing me, or else she was pensioned off to the countryside. I never asked. Neither her life nor, if she has passed, her death have any meaning for me. I am my father’s girl.

I drift around the palace, my pain a burden I carry from room to room, unable to set down. My smile is painted on my face like one of the gaudy frescoes on the palace walls. I rule through a fog, bewildered and pierced with grief. It dissolves me like a hot knife into the butter of my heart. Charmian won’t leave my side, whispering to me the next duty that I must be seen to perform. Without her reminder, I would stand lost in each room, forgetting why I am there, aware of nothing but the steady throb of my heart. She tethers me to this moment, stops me from drifting away on a tide of loss. We have been together for all of our lives, never parted for longer than a few hours. I know that no one else grieves, they only pretend in a shadow play of feeling. I watch my siblings, they burn incense and offer up prayers, but my little sister stifles a yawn, and my brothers pick their noses as the priests sing. They all three ply others with gold to recite the necessary prayers for Auletes’ soul instead of saying the prayers themselves. And yet, while I’m annoyed by the hollowness of their pretence, I understand why they do not grieve. I was always his favourite.

We are a family of living gods. We are the divine brought to earth like lightning. Our people recognise us as such, fall to their knees and tremble with awe and fear and deafen us with their prayers. We certainly behave as gods – my father murdered my older sister Berenice, and my younger brother’s allies come up with schemes to kill me. These are the acts of wrathful gods, not ordinary men. Only my little sister Arsinoe now regards me with anything approaching affection. She hasn’t tried to murder me, and in our family that is as close as we can get to love. I comforted her when she cried as a baby, and gave her my amulet to teethe upon, the tiny dents she made in the pliant gold more precious to me than any of the inlaid jewels. She is Clytemnestra to my Helen, and even if we weren’t hatched from the same egg, we are still sister goddesses. Yet we are mortal deities. My father died. I bleed and I piss and even the nipping flies ignore my orders to leave me alone. I command neither fire to spring from the rocks, nor water from the clouds.

Even though I’m the only soul who truly grieves for my father, the royal palace is brimming with courtiers performing rituals of mourning in rooms that feel strangely empty without the largeness of my father’s presence, his laughter. Arsinoe and my littlest brother, Ptolemy but always known as Tol, are secluded in the nursery with the priests, praying for his soul. Along the hall my other brother Ptolemy wails and screams in a wild performance of grief. I long to slap him. My hands twitch at my sides. His charade is entirely unnecessary. Everyone knows that my father and his eldest son loathed each other. My father was corpulent and incompetent, and despite his geniality and good humour, he loathed the expression of the worst parts of himself in his eldest son. Despite his aversion, my father had little choice but to declare Ptolemy and I must rule together after his death. The Ptolemies always rule in sibling pairs, our blood unthinned by interlopers and unthreatened by the interest of rival houses. A family united in power. But we two are united only in our loathing of one another.

One afternoon we are married in a farce of love. My slaves dress me in silks and bauble me with jewels and then the priests lead me into the temple, where my younger brother waits, sulking. He doesn’t look at me. His detested sister-bride. At least he doesn’t have his midday meal smeared upon his robes or his face. His nursemaids have cleaned him for our wedding. The priests call out our names and those of our ancestors in song. My sister strews flowers upon the altars, and little Tol leads a procession of holy animals: crocodiles, herons, tame jackals. The animals relieve themselves on the mosaic floors, so the air is thick with the smell of flowers, incense and dung. The heat swells and drips. I glance at my brother-husband, he’s abandoned any pretence of interest and is squashing a column of ants with his toe.

Afterwards we walk out together, keeping a careful distance from one another. We cannot bear for even our fingers to touch. Ptolemy. The young Pharaoh who is now my husband, at least in name. Our courts have always been rivals, his ruled by his eunuch generals, Pothinus and Achillas. They haunt the clear skies of the court like locust clouds. If they could have caused my death by wishing it, then I’d have been sealed inside my tomb long ago.

Our enmity is old and entrenched: their power flows from my brother Ptolemy, mere tributaries fed by his spring. Pothinus is even fatter than my brother, a plucked and hairless boar, glossy and nicely basted ready for the oven. Achillas is similarly smooth, but he is all angles, and his brown eyes are thatched by thick black eyebrows. He has no other hair on his body, and so I wonder whether he has a slave glue on his eyebrows every morning. The two men are Ptolemy’s creatures, his advisors, his generals, tutors and the conjurers of his nastiest whims. And, they have longed for my death or downfall since my girlhood. They are malevolence clarified into flesh. They were castrated as boys, moulded and created to serve my brother and not be governed by their own needs. They have no desire other than power, cannot lust for man or woman, can neither marry nor father any children. Their incomplete state binds them to my brother. He is the only family they can ever have, their legacy can flow only through him.

These two jackals hunger for my flesh and I cannot tell whether this desire has now transformed into active scheming. As I walk the halls with my new husband, followed by our competing trains of slaves and guards, I wonder if death lurks amongst their smiling faces, ready to slide a dagger into the pliant flesh between my ribs.

As we parade through the palace, a flotilla of thousands of butterflies is released, fluttering around us as we pass. The insects settle on me like colourful curls of ash, landing upon my eyebrows and hair, pinned to my robes like living bejewelled brooches, but there are too many and I long to flick them away. The courtiers sing and shout, pretending Ptolemy and I are lovers, and shower us with good wishes. Their compliments and happy hopes curdle as they reach my ears. I know it’s hollow and I cannot see how this union can possibly last. Ptolemy and I are supposed to be Isis and Osiris: queen of the earth and magic and creator of life, and her lord of death. One cannot exist without the other; they are a perfect pair, day and night. But Ptolemy is no Osiris. We might be a family of divinities but my brother is a terracotta god, hollow and fragile. He has no thoughts of his own, and his skull reverberates with the grisly ambitions of Achillas and Pothinus. When he speaks, I hear their words spew from his mouth. They have schooled him in how to be selfish and decadent and cruel, nurturing his aversion towards me. The tender plant of dislike has flourished into a thriving hatred.

At the end of the hall, abruptly he turns from me, and retreats to his suite of rooms without a word. I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding, the happiest I’ve been for days simply to see him go. His presence is a noxious cloud that pollutes the air of any room he haunts.

I understand the danger I’m in. I’m trapped between my brother’s presence and my father’s absence. One presses against me, a pain squeezing my skull; while I feel the hole my father has left as a hollow space in my chest. He can’t protect me any longer. I’m tight and thrumming with fear. Restless, I lie awake listening to the steady breathing of Charmian on the mattress at my feet. I resent her peace but I can’t bear to wake her. A little before dawn, I slide into an uneasy sleep and dream I’m dragged down into the underworld, where Anubis waits for me, his curved blade in his fist. I scream and writhe as with a sigh, he slices open my chest and pulls my organs out, first my lungs and then my still-beating heart, which he places in waiting canopic jars. I call out, telling him to stop, I’m alive. But he shakes his head.

‘You are steeped in death, my love,’ he says. His breath smells of grave dirt. He licks my cheek with his cold jackal tongue. ‘You are mine.’

And, with a scalloped needle, he stitches me back together with black thread. My heart and lungs are missing, there’s a bloody void in my chest. I wake sweating and breathless and for a minute I’m terrified that I can’t breathe because my lungs are still down in the underworld. Charmian holds me, dabs my forehead with cool water. I gasp and inhale a gulp of cool, bright air.

‘I am too much in death,’ I tell her.

I have been warned by the god himself. I must cling more fiercely to life or I will join my ghost heart in the underworld and the next time Anubis will not allow me back up.

I try harder to attend the business of the court. I prick my finger with a pin every time I feel myself drift into melancholy. I can’t let my grief make me careless. So each morning as I wake, Charmian whispers to me that my father is dead and I am queen, for I must not forget. It is dangerous even for a moment. The others sense the shift in me, the sudden sharpening. Everyone waits, a breath yet to be exhaled. They don’t know what kind of queen I shall be. I don’t know yet either. I wear power like a robe of stars. It dazzles and yet I discard it as I sleep. I tell stories and jokes, try to charm them. My father thought I was funny. But now when I tell a joke, everyone else laughs before I’ve finished, they daren’t wait to see if it’s amusing.

I long to be alone but courtiers watch me as I eat, shit and sleep. They argue for the privilege of emptying my bedpan. Even as I think in silence, my eyes closed, I can still hear the tick and hurry of their minds, feel the prickle of their gaze upon my skin.

My brother’s half of the court longs for me to fail with the fervour with which they might pine for a distant lover. They don’t like that a woman has power, that my brother is merely my consort, and it is me who rules. They consider my father’s faith in my abilities an aberration, a perversion of the natural order. I know that they don’t believe that I am the true Pharaoh, and they want to see me subjugated to my brother or, better still, dead.

Ptolemy and I sit upon twin thrones in one of the palace halls. The walls and ceilings are gilded with so much gold that it’s like being inside the sun. The gold is mosaiced with jewels depicting jackals whose black fur is inlaid obsidian with bloody rubies for eyes, and they squabble upon grassy emeralds while the desert sky above is made from fat beads of turquoise. The scent of oil of roses and bay leaves perfumes the air. I’m used to these marvels. I hardly notice. It surprised me as a child to venture beyond the palace bounds and see that there was another world, one wounded, grubby and stinking and not beautiful. I did not know before then that this was beauty as I had nothing ugly and broken to compare it to. Before I’d thought this radiance and delight was the whole world.

The kingdom I have inherited from my father is a tangled ball of thread, and it falls to me to try and unknot it. Our wealth is the Nile. She feeds us with her tears, spilling into the fields, but this year she denies us. The sun parches the fields, and the crops wither like my father in his tomb. I feel the wings of the Roman crows gathering, demanding to be fed. I glance at Ptolemy. He’s slumped in his throne beside me, sucking on a date stone. Resentment bubbles in my chest. He wants the power and riches but he has no interest in the tedium and responsibility of rule.

We have sat here for hours, listening as slaves bring us meat and nuts and fruit and pour goblets of wine. Yet nothing can distract from the boredom of a day of petitions. The sun has begun its descent towards the underworld but Ptolemy and I are still sitting in the grand chamber, listening, or rather I am listening as he fidgets and makes faces. Despite the duckdown cushions, my backside aches. I long to shake out my stiffening limbs and walk. The light moves across the walls, shadows stroking the inlaid gods. As the evening stretches, I notice a man lingering at the back of the room. He allows others to take his place, never pushing forward to voice his motion, listening with careful attention to the other requests. He is simply dressed in pale robes, and yet I can see the fabric is the finest cotton, his bearing absolutely upright, exuding self-confidence. I watch him, keeping track of him as he moves around the room, as I would a wasp. I have my slaves write down all the items and I pay attention, even as my head thrums with heat and boredom. I glance at Ptolemy and see that now he’s fast asleep, head lolling, cheeks pinkly flushed. Sleeping, he looks almost sweet, his face the flower that belies the sting of the bee concealed within. He doesn’t need to pay attention for Achillas and Pothinus act on his behalf. A farmer pleads for leniency. The floods are low this year and he cannot pay the tax I demand. I pause, considering. The treasury is rapidly emptying, a flagon sprung a leak, and without the bounty of the Nile, we cannot sell grain for gold. Yet, this early in my reign, I wish to be benevolent.

‘We grant you mercy, for this year. But, next year, the outstanding debt must be paid with interest. My slave will work out the rate.’

He bows, relieved. Then, for the hundredth time today, Achillas and Pothinus clear their throats. It’s a dry sound like the crumpling of papyrus. I should order a slave to mix them a tincture to cure coughs. Achillas steps forward, his voice sticky with condescension.

‘Queen Cleopatra is wise. Her goodness flows from her womanhood.’

I flinch. They wield my sex as a weapon and would use it to slit my throat if they could. Whatever I say, they slide forward to offer contradiction. The farmer freezes, a hare spotted by the wolf.

‘Do you still own property?’ asks Achillas.

The farmer hesitates. ‘Some.’

‘Don’t be so modest. You’re a man of some considerable means. I have here a list of holdings.’

Achillas reels off a summary, including dozens of farms and vineyards, villas and scores of slaves.

‘Have I missed anything?’

The farmer swallows, shakes his head.

Achillas smiles, but his voice is hard, seasoned with cruelty.

‘Sell what you need. Then pay our Pharaoh Ptolemy. And his oh-so-kind-hearted queen.’

He pronounces kind-hearted as though it’s a shameful weakness, a liability of womanhood. It’s also a lie, my generosity wasn’t kindness but pragmatism. I understand my need for friends. I’ll buy them a bushel at a time if I must.

The unfortunate farmer blanches, considering the cost to him of selling his property and stock. ‘I must sell at a fraction of the value. This year is lean. One doesn’t sell a cow at market until she’s fattened.’

He looks to me, bewildered by the conflicting decrees. Who does he obey? I am queen, and yet the eunuch speaks with the voice of my brother-husband. I have little interest in this actual farmer, but, it’s clear that the court is paralysed. Whatever decree I issue, my brother’s proxies contradict. They do not care for this farmer or the coins he can deposit in our treasury, they seek to undermine me, sow chaos and discontent, which they hope to reap and convert into their own power. I glance at Ptolemy: he’s still asleep.

The farmer scuttles out, comforted by his sons. Only now does the stranger step forward. The last of all the petitioners. He’s stayed throughout this endless day, watching the manoeuvrings of the court, the stalling and side-swiping. I can see him storing it all up in his mind, scraps ready to be mashed together and fed to his superiors.

‘Welcome, Roman,’ I say. I know who he is, and why he has come.

‘We pay tribute, great queen and Pharaoh, Cleopatra, and your brother-husband, King Ptolemy. I bring you gifts in tribute.’

I glance with little interest at the offerings in trunks that slaves have now dragged into the hall. The slaves themselves are part of the gift. One of them catches my eye. He’s the largest man I’ve ever seen, tall and lean, with muscles like an ox while every inch of his brown skin is covered in tattoos. The Roman diplomat smiles. He has too many teeth.

‘This slave is Apollodorus the Sicilian. A gift for you, great queen.’

The slave stands still, hands clasped behind his back. His black eyes are shrewd and I do not trust him. A Roman slave is still a Roman. There are already enough spies watching me.

‘We hope you enjoy our tributes,’ continues the diplomat.

I bite my lip. He does not pay tribute. He wants payment. This is the way of the Romans, they know of no other. My father’s corpse is not yet dry, and already the scavengers are here to peck away at the remains. This is Year One of Cleopatra. My father died and Egypt is reborn anew with me. A new Pharaoh, and a new world, and yet I am haunted by the old. It will not leave me be. My father’s choices seem to take form and reach up as if from the grave to snatch at me, choke me. I think of Cato’s warning issued from the latrina. Years ago against his advice, my father sold us to Rome, and now I must find a way to pay.

I still can’t sleep and now I’m afraid to dream. What if Anubis still waits for me? I pace my rooms, drinking cup after cup of sweet wine. Charmian stays awake with me watching, her face tight with concern. She doesn’t offer advice, only the comfort of her presence. I’m crushed between Rome and the eunuchs, one is the wheel and the other the road. I must find a way to escape. I chew my finger. Rome is as unavoidable as nightfall, its shadow reaching across the world with black fingers. I cannot fend off Rome until I have escaped the plotting of my brother and his cronies. This fight to survive until tomorrow has been my whole life. I don’t know anything other than this. I turn to Charmian.

‘They think I’m weak. I am the one to be kicked to death or drowned in the river.’

Charmian flinches.

‘I must show them that they’re wrong. It’s me who’s strong. My friends aren’t here in Alexandria, but they do exist. I have to show them so they dare not strike against me.’

Charmian doesn’t answer. She takes my hand and I sit beside her, my head resting against hers.

I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. The heat radiates through the brick. I am damp and sweating and a little drunk. From outside I hear laughter. I glance through the window and see my sister and smallest brother, Tol, playing in the fountains. They splash and shriek with laughter. Evidently they were too hot to sleep, and their slaves have permitted them outside to cool down in the waters.

I watch them with a mixture of affection and envy.

‘You remember when this was us?’ I say.

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘But for you it was never like this. Not really. You were never free.’

I stifle a laugh at the irony of the slave telling the queen that she was never free, but it’s true. Ever since I was conscious of my first thought, I knew that I must be prepared to rule. And yet, now, in this moment I rattle. I feel the emptiness in my chest. Is there more than the fight to survive and the constant echo of death, crooning to me, always ready, always waiting? What would it be like to play chase around the fountain without fear? I’m irritated with myself for even allowing such a useless thought. For me there’s nothing else but this.

Turning away from the window, I rise and lay out offerings for the gods upon the alters in my chamber. Grain and gold for Isis, my protector and own goddess. Yet, I do not neglect either Osiris or Anubis. The death gods have marked me. I must appease them. I give them milk and cooked meats and carved statues and ply them with prayers. Charmian prepares me a sleeping draught and settles me onto the bed.

‘Don’t leave me,’ I say, suddenly frightened, clinging to her hand.

‘I’m here,’ she whispers, and kisses my cheek, but already I’m falling to where she cannot follow.

I am with my father. He sits at the head of a feast in the underworld; the table is heaped with food, all of it rotten. Here is the grain and meat and milk I offered, only down here it moulders and the milk is rancid and sour, the meat green, the nuts and fruit withered and thick with flies. My father eats, regardless. Flies swarm in the black hole of his mouth. He looks so sad. His fat has sloughed away, his skin sags around his face and dangles in curtains from his arms. I reach for him, but he shakes his head. If I touch him or I eat from this rotting feast, then I cannot return. He points with a thin finger, and I see Anubis sits in the corner on a bed of golden straw playing with a pure white calf with a black heart-shaped face. The animal is radiant, its coat glows like a lit star. Its little horns are polished metal and tipped with gold. To my relief, Anubis is so busy with the beautiful calf he hasn’t noticed me.

In my dream I understand. The calf will become the new Buchis bull, I am witnessing the birth of a god. Through the new god, there is new power and life. My father continues to stare at me as he eats the skeleton of a mouse, its bones snapping between his teeth. His face is bright with love. I shall not see him again, not until I join him in the field of reeds. I must leave him behind before Anubis spots me if I want to be free. I raise my hand in farewell. He only stares, crunches his mouse.

I wake to find Charmian kneeling over me, her nose almost touching mine. Her expression is tight with fear.

‘You were crying out,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t wake you.’

I tug her towards me and plant a kiss on each cheek.

‘We’re going on a journey.’