Page 5 of Cleopatra
5
CLEOPATRA
W e sail along the Nile in the royal barge, gold cast upon green as fallen leaves upon the surface of the water. The wind plumps the sails and we rush forward, cutting through the waves. The Nile is crowded with golden ships, the sky stuffed with purple sails. Menelaus’ fleet when it set out for Troy to fight for Helen was not as splendid as ours nor as blessed. Every one of my ships is gilded, some are shaped in the form of swans and fish, and it appears as though with my divine magic I have caused gold to float upon the waters, reversing the laws of nature. As I stand at the prow with the wind in my face, I laugh in delight. This is the first time I’ve felt free since my father died. My ships can outrun them all – the poisonous hate of my brother and his eunuchs, the spit and snarling whispers of the court. Here, there are only friends and the gods.
I want them all to see my power, witness my ships and the men who love me. Dusk falls and the river is a black ribbon spooling in the dark. But the golden boats are lit with a galaxy of candles and the light rivals the moon and stars. The hundreds of boats become a thousand in reflection, doubled and wobbling in the waters. I wonder that Artemis doesn’t descend to remonstrate that we’ve stolen her glory. But then, this is a holy procession, each vessel a floating temple, our voyage a prayer and supplication.
My royal barge is the tip of the armada. It’s the most splendid of all the crafts, its purple sails shot through with silver thread. Three hundred oarsmen pull the boat through the water, their oars burnished with silver so that they catch in the moonlight like snags of lightning. Slave girls play flutes to set the rhythm of the oars, so as the galley slaves row, we are pulled through the water in a steady dance. Priests burn incense, perfuming the very winds that fill the sails. The heady scent and snatches of music coil around us, mingling with the breeze. However, amid the sweet fragrance I inhale the sharp stink of cow shit for my barge bears the brand-new mortal god, the Buchis bull. While he is a god, powerful and glorious, his earthly excrement comes in thick spurts, cutting through the perfumed night air, coating the deck. Slaves sweep it away as fast as it slides out of him, but still the muck falls, spattering the beast-god’s tail and besmirching his perfect white flanks. The slaves clean him, scrubbing and washing under the close direction of the priests. Two dozen priests are gathered here on my barge, all of them tending the new calf. A net of silk is cast over his eyes so that the biting river flies and mosquitos don’t plague him. They feed him handfuls of the tenderest, sweetest grass, which is converted into more squirting greenish shit at dizzying speed.
Apollodorus the Sicilian is busy trying to prove his worth. I still don’t trust him, but I can see him oozing charm before Charmian. She laughs and throws back her head as he leans in. He whispers something in her ear, and she turns to him, face raised upwards, sunlit. A splinter of something catches in my belly. I inhale sharply, as though a bee has stung my foot. She has never looked at someone else before with that easy, open joy. Only me.
Apollodorus sees me watching and our eyes meet for a moment, and then he bows. I trust him even less. He would take her from me, if he could. I can have him killed at once. No one would question it, not for a moment. And yet, I do not want to kill him or send him back to Rome. Charmian would never reproach me aloud, but I would see her anguish and resentment. Everyone else’s affection for me is bought, Charmian’s was gifted to me long ago and I will not spoil it. She’ll soon tire of this pretty Sicilian, I tell myself. There were probably other boys before, I just didn’t notice them. Even as I say this, I know it isn’t true.
Turning away from them both and trying to escape the smell of the bull, I leave my pavilion and move to the very edge of the deck. Fresh, cool air stirs my hair and below the water swirls and foams. I’m adorned in my crown of plumes, the shining sun disc set into my hair bracketed by a pair of gilded horns. My neck aches with the weight and yet I can see the delight in the faces of the crowd gathered on the shore as we pass. They’re all here to witness the new god beneath the new moon. We sail as close to the bank of the river as we dare, the shore thick with people. They reach out to touch us, skim the boat with their fingertips. As they see me in my crown, they holler in ecstasy, as overjoyed to glimpse me as they are the bull-god. They had faith I existed, but to see me, in flesh and crown, is to see earthed magic. I am their Cleopatra. I feel their excitement and their love. It lands on my skin like fine spring rain. Leaving Apollodorus, Charmian comes to join me, kneeling beside me, and I squeeze her hand.
‘I can hear the laughter of gods,’ I say.
My heart is pounding against my ribs. The screams and fervour of the crowd are a thunderclap. The air is thick with music, bonfires glow along the shore and I can see people dancing. I pull Charmian to her feet and we dance together, laughing and waving at the throng. Apollodorus stands at a little distance, aware of my distrust. But, caught in the thrill, I gesture to him to join us. Let him report to Rome how I am adored and worshipped.
‘All the gods are here,’ I shout over the din. ‘Diana and Bastet and Neith.’
They are the goddesses of power and the dark, their names and shapes change and shift like the waters of the river, but their force is eternal and unstoppable. Apollodorus stumbles as the boat lurches and Charmian steadies him. His cheeks are glossy with excitement.
‘They love you for coming, great queen and Pharaoh. This Buchis bull is especially blessed for he is carried on the vessel of a goddess,’ he says.
His expression is bright with pleasure. He is difficult to dislike, especially in this moment when I am giddy, thrumming with their love. My foolish brother worships only the Greek gods. I accept them all. He condescends to the Egyptian gods as well as the people. He risks the wrath of both.
I am as young as this tender moon, and so is my reign. This fresh moon is in her own celestial boat at the beginning of her monthly voyage across the sky. We will celebrate every night as she sails, her plump pale face growing skinny and then fattening again, while we feast and dance. She sails above and we below, all of us journeying towards the city of Memphis, the moon herself leading our flotilla, tugging us along in her wake.
My head aches. I lean over the side and am sick into the water. Charmian holds back my hair, but her face is as pale as mine. She smells sourly of stale sweat. Kohl is smudged beneath her eyes. I just want to curl up in bed. The rhythm of the barge upon the tide is wretched and relentless, and with each shudder of the boat another wave of nausea rises in my throat. I don’t want to drink or feast or dance or wave at the crowds again tonight but I know that I must. New faces line the banks each evening as we sail and for them, the celebration is fresh, the spectacle already clarifying into a story that they will tell and retell to their grandchildren. For me, however, every day and night is the same, tumbling over each other. The shores are lined with a crowd buzzing with veneration, but I can’t tell the new faces from the old; they’re identical, shiny with ecstasy. I wonder if the gods tire of their feasting and our worship. I suppose they do. Boredom drives them to meddle with the lives of mortals. I long to sleep at night and to see Ra high in the sky, a polished gold plate spinning against the blue. I don’t. I wave and smile and dance and my head throbs. I fall asleep at dawn and then rise again at dusk, the taste of vomit and wine souring my mouth.
I wake up cross, and damp with sweat. Mosquito bites mar the tender flesh on my arms and legs. Charmian soothes them with herbs and oil, and begins to dress me once more for the evening’s celebration. I’ve lost all count of the days. They fall from the trees in a glut like overripe fruit. Apollodorus approaches and stands at a little distance waiting, hesitant, holding something behind his back. I sigh, irritated. I am too tired to be bothered with the trickery of Roman spies.
‘Leave. You are not wanted. If I desire your presence, I shall order it,’ I snap.
He bows low but to my astonishment, he does not leave.
‘Do you disobey your queen? Or do you ignore my command, because you are no Egyptian?’ I say, my voice low in anger.
I can have him cast into the Nile and drowned in a moment. Apollodorus studies me intently, and then kneels, proffering me a flask.
‘Drink and recover, goddess,’ he says.
His voice is gentle. For a moment I wonder if the flask contains poison. But the Romans don’t want me dead – at least not yet; they want me to pay them first. I take it and sip. The liquid is so cold it burns my throat. I feel the chill spreading out like cold fingers across my body, reaching up and cooling the pain at the base of my skull. I feel a little better. No longer so tired, nor as irritable. I say nothing, but he smiles. He can tell. If it wasn’t for Charmian, I would almost like him. Not as she does, of course. I have no desire for his body or his arms or his brown eyes.
I wish that I could set aside my godhead for a single night and sleep unwatched. I’d like to sit with Charmian and perhaps even Apollodorus and talk of ordinary things. I realise that I don’t know what ordinary things would be. I feel a tug of sadness. Apollodorus still stands there, waiting. Charmian looks at him with such tenderness that irritation flares again within me, igniting into real anger.
‘Go! Leave me and this ship. Return to your true masters,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t trust you, Roman.’
He frowns, his expression sad. ‘I am not Roman. I’m yours, goddess. One day, you will understand the truth of this.’ He stands and begins to walk away. ‘I shall return to you, and when I do, you won’t ask me to leave your side again.’
I don’t reply, but through half-closed lids, I notice that Charmian’s mouth is pursed, tight with displeasure. I understand that she has grown too fond of the Sicilian and is angry that I have sent him away. I can’t remember her ever being angry with me before. Now, her eyes are shiny with tears and she pinches the flesh of her arm, refusing to meet my eye. I’m torn between resentment – she should only ever want me – and guilt. It is unfamiliar and unpleasant, and I try to shove it away, but the feeling pops up like a bubble that will not burst. I do not like it.
The next night, I decide that it’s time for me to undertake another expedition, but this time I must travel alone. Iras helps me to dress Charmian. Iras is one of my favourite slaves, a girl of fifteen who has served me since she could proffer a goblet of wine without spilling it. She’s small and scrawny, her wrist bones like those of a thrush. Together, Iras and I dress Charmian in my own costume: at first she’s unsure, skinny and stooped beneath the weight of the headpiece, jewels and robes. But then, Iras paints her face and I make her follow me around the deck, head erect, stepping in my own footsteps, and as the lights of the shimmering sun disc headpiece glint in her hair, she is enough like me that no one will dare offer an objection. For this one night she may wield my godhead by proxy. The people will never know and I hope the other gods will forgive me.
With the help of Iras, I slide from the royal barge into a small wooden boat. I almost miss Apollodorus, for it’s another slave who rows me. It’s taking too long, and I know that Apollodorus with his colossal strength would have reached the shore in half the time. I wear Charmian’s simple linen tunic, and only a thin gold serpent twisting around the top of my arm hints that I am no ordinary slave.
Behind me on the water, the nightly celebrations continue. The moon is thinning, we’re halfway through her monthly voyage. The royal barge glows like a white star and a brazier shoots a column of crimson rain upwards into the dark. Above the music of the flutes and drums, I can hear the bellow of the little bull. As we reach the shore, a priest is waiting. If he knows who I am, he says nothing, only helps me out of the small boat.
It’s a relief to walk on dry land after weeks upon the barge, but the ground shudders and heaves with each step and I stumble. The priest grabs my elbow to steady me. I’m surprised at his touch. No man would ordinarily dare, but tonight, in this moment, I have shed Cleopatra, so I allow it to pass. We move unnoticed through the crowds. Behind me, my stand-in drifts upon the water, absorbing their adoration like parched ground soaks up rain.
We walk quickly away from the river. The streets are empty. There are stalls stuffed with trinkets and mummified animals for tourists and pilgrims. Tonight, this far from the river there is little business to be had amongst the travellers as they all throng to witness the armada. Seeing me pass, a stallholder rouses himself, suddenly alert and eager for a customer, and shoves a tiny mummified frog towards me.
‘Excellent price. He will bring your family good fortune.’
I frown at him. I don’t want his knockdown fortune or cut-price luck. He’s persistent, now he’s spotted me – a tourist after hours; he’s determined to press for a sale and reaches for another bundle, thrusting it towards me. ‘Rat? Or perhaps crocodile?’
The crocodile must be a juvenile for it’s tiny, shrivelled to nothing within its bandages. I don’t want any of these cheap trinkets of death and shove them away more forcefully as the priest hisses at the vendor to leave us be.
We hurry on through the evening, eventually reaching the start of the Sarapion Way. It’s a wide, straight road stretching through the lonely sands of the desert. It leads to the temples and is lined on either side by hundreds of carved statues of sphinx, who eye us with disinterest as we pass. The night is cool and strewn with stars, and the rimless eye of the moon surveys us, curious. The moon is still bright enough that the sphinx cast long shadows against the sands. There are no other travellers at this hour and the stillness is that of death. The road marks the transition between the mortal world and the realm of the dead. As we walk, I can see the final journeys of the countless souls filing along this path – the last Buchis bull borne by his priests and attendants and thousands of mourners, noisy with grief under the silent gaze of the sphinx.
I’m relieved when we reach the first of the temples. There are dozens of them huddled together – a village of the gods. The great ones – Isis, Osiris, Ra, Horus – have grand and magnificent palaces devoted to them, carved and adorned with paintings, but even the lesser divinities have their allotted shrines. Memphis is a city of temples, but more of it is laid out beneath the earth than above, an underground metropolis of the dead. As we approach, the smell of incense mingles with the fires that burn all night. It’s late but the temple complex is still busy, death must be tended and fed – and it’s thronging with priests and slaves, while the air is pierced with the barking of dogs and the mewing of puppies. The priest takes a torch and beckons for me to follow as he enters a large temple dedicated to Osiris and Anubis. I trail him inside, and glancing upwards, see that the interior is covered in elegant carvings and a library of hieroglyphs. He walks quickly past the alters heaped with offerings of fruit and wine, past statues and painted reliefs to an entranceway that leads to a tunnel, a black yawning maw. I hesitate, watching as he disappears into the darkness. I don’t have to go. I don’t have to follow him. But a voice inside me whispers that I do, I must. Taking a deep breath, I pursue him down, down into the dark, into the labyrinthine tunnel of catacombs. The only light is the flame from the torch in his hands, and I experience a sharp snarl of fear. Will I find my way back into the light and the return journey across the Sarapion Way? I remind myself that it’s in order to find my way back I make this journey.
The stench of death and dry earth grows stronger as we descend, and the silence reverberates around us. Neither of us speak. The only sound is our footsteps upon the sandstone floor. I can’t tell how long we walk for. There is only darkness in front and darkness behind. There’s no time, just the beat of our feet, and the small yolk of light that spills from his torch. Suddenly he stops, so abruptly that I nearly walk into him.
‘We’re here,’ says the priest.
For a moment, I’m not sure what he means, and then as he holds up his torch, I realise that we’re standing in a chamber carved into the rock. He uses his torch to light several more in sconces set into the walls. Craning my neck, I observe that the ceiling is high, whether hollowed by hands or part of a natural cave, I can’t tell. Although the walls are plain and unadorned, they’re lined with wooden shelves that stretch up and up towards the roof. Upon each shelf is wrapped a small mummified body. There are thousands and thousands of them, all neatly rolled and stacked. This room is stuffed with death, the priest and I the only living things.
‘As the queen ordered,’ he says. ‘All in the image of Anubis.’ Inside the wrappings the bodies are all dogs and jackals and foxes. A gift to Osiris and Anubis, the jackal god who prowls the underworld. Anubis prefers sacrifices that look like him. The farms above us are filled with breeding dogs, all future offerings. I have paid for all of these bodies – thousands upon thousands of canine lives in exchange for mine. Many are tiny puppies that never opened their eyes, but slid straight from birth into the ready arms of death. The stillness in the chamber is absolute. A moth flutters around a torch flame, getting too close and singeing its wing. I’m desperate to leave. I have too much life in me to be here, I can feel the blood fizzing in my veins. I want to shout and clap and dance, disturb the unnatural stillness. Every nerve tells me to run and escape outside and inhale cool, fresh air. But, if I run, I’m as likely to run further in and down than find my way out. And, I need to linger long enough to offer my prayers and spells. Anubis must know that these sacrifices are from me and release his claim upon me.
I murmur my prayers and retrieve from the folds of my dress a pomegranate. I split it and place the offering on a small, low shrine, bloody seeds spilling out and staining my fingertips. I dismiss the priest and order him to retreat along the tunnel – I don’t need him to be my intermediary.
‘I’ll summon you when I need you to take me back,’ I say.
Alone, I talk to the gods myself. I pray but I do not plead. I demand their favour. These gods sneer at supplicants. I pick up a torch from one of the scones and hesitate. There is no sign that they have heard me. Only stillness. Turning away from the chamber, I walk back through the tunnel past the waiting priest, and unlike Orpheus during his ascent from hell, I don’t look back.
I return to the royal barge as dawn reaches across the sky. Iras helps me clamber aboard. I retreat straight to my pavilion, where the painted Cleopatra sleeps, small beneath her borrowed robes. I don’t wake her but slide into bed beside her, wrap my arms around her slim waist. In a few hours I shall be myself again, but not yet.
We finish the last night of celebrations with relief. I can dance and drink no more. I could weep with relief as Charmian and Iras remove the golden disc from my head. I’m light, weightless, released from the trappings of divinity. Even the bull seems tired, exhausted by the adulation. Tomorrow, I shall begin my return journey towards Alexandria. It is time for the bull and I to part. He will continue onto Thebes where his temple is prepared and live out his mortal portion in gentle delight. I must go back to court and take my position amongst the snakes and liars. I have missed no one, except for my sister. I worry about how she fares in my absence, lest my brother’s thugs – bored without a focus for their hate – turn their eye upon her. Perhaps I was mistaken in not bringing her with me. Guilt and fear nudge at me, and I lie awake for a while, listening to water slap against the hull, until at last the motion rocks me to sleep.
I’m woken at dawn by shouting. I scramble to my feet, annoyed, and hurry to the port bow, trying to see what has caused the commotion. My view is blocked by sailors jostling and yelling, my private guards hollering back in return, and it takes a moment for them to realise that I am standing here amongst them. With swooping apologies they part, and I walk to the side of the boat and see a small fishing boat bobbing in the waters. A hundred of my bowmen have trained their arrows upon him.
‘Are you such poor shots that it will take all one hundred of you to hit him?’ I say.
All the bows but one lower.
The man in the boat raises his hand in greeting. If I hadn’t seen him myself, I would know it was him by Charmian’s sudden smile.
‘Lower your bow,’ I say to the last archer. ‘Or you will pierce two hearts at once, and one of them, at least, I love.’
Charmian blushes and murmurs her thanks.
‘Don’t. I may still have him killed later and risk your heart.’
Nimbly, Apollodorus tethers his boat to our barge and climbs aboard, swinging himself up the rope ladder cast over the side. Within a few minutes he stands before me, his clothes bleached from the sun. There’s thick stubble on his face.
‘Don’t go back to Alexandria. Turn around. They pursue you,’ he says.
I stare at him. ‘Ptolemy?’
He nods. ‘Your brother and his vipers have taken the city and the palace. He sails towards you with a fleet, while his armies lie in wait upon the road.’
Is this a trick? Does Apollodorus try to scare me, to force me to turn around, to trick me into retreat? He looks across at Charmian and his expression is bright with affection. His loyalty towards me I might still doubt but I don’t believe he would allow anything to hurt her. I’m not foolish enough to trust his love for a woman over his love of Rome. I turn to my generals.
‘Send out scouts. See if what he says is true. Keep him here until they return.’
Apollodorus surrenders peaceably to my guards. He knows that if it is discovered that he lies, then he will be put to death. Either he is very confident that they will find him to be telling the truth, or he has made peace with his Roman gods.
Until the scouts return there’s nothing to do but wait. The sun rises. We wave farewell to the bull, who continues on his way. I order our ships around a bend in the river where we are safer, half hidden and more easily defended. Charmian offers me food. I wave it away. Her gaze is constantly upon where Apollodorus sits in the corner, his wrists bound. I catch her watching him, her face tight with anxiety. He winks at her and she smiles. I look away. I like him and I should be sad to see him die, but I hope he is lying. The alternative is far worse. A heron fishes from the side of the boat. The sun starts to sink into the river. The scouts return. I can see from their faces that Apollodorus tells the truth.
My courtiers turn to me, faces pale and wide with fear. Everyone wants to know what we are to do.
‘We leave the river at once. He expects to find us on the water. We must retreat into the desert. Her sands and heat will hide us.’
I instruct my generals to raise an army. These soldiers with my fleet will not be enough to fight a war.
I take a knife and cut Apollodorus’s bonds myself.
‘Shall I go with them, my queen?’ he asks. ‘I will speak eloquently in your name and raise ten score of men to fight for you.’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘You will stay with me. At my side.’
Charmian takes my hand, kisses it. I don’t squeeze it back for this decision was not made for her. He’s proved his loyalty to me. And it is that I reward; I do not indulge her affection.
I huddle in the first boat to leave the royal barge, Charmian and Iras crouched beside me. Apollodorus rows us himself, with smooth, strong strokes. In a few hours, the desert will swallow us and allow us to hide and gather ourselves. Then, I will return to Alexandria and remove the monster squatting on my throne. I listen to the slap of the oars and I understand that Anubis has released me. If I hadn’t gone into the temple and appeased him, he would have let me sail into my brother’s trap, and the tender arms of death.