Page 6 of Cleopatra

6

CLEOPATRA

I detest having my monthly bleed out here in the desert. The great sand sea is not the place to be reminded that I’m a woman as well as a Pharaoh. My thighs are chafing with sweat and blood. Charmian washes me with scented rose water, but a minute later I’m sticky again. The smell of the rose water mingles with that of blood.

We are all damp with sweat and tiny, oozing bites from the sandflies. They nip me through the silk of my robes and along my scalp. I long to scratch at them with my nails but I can’t. They’re watching. They’re always watching and goddesses don’t scratch at bites. I wonder how Isis herself could stand it – that’s a detail her priests never mention. Another fly lands on my lip, tickling and buzzing, and I flick it away. I wouldn’t mind the insects, if it wasn’t for the cramping in my belly. Wordlessly, Charmian tries to dab my forehead with a damp cloth but I wave her away. No one must see my discomfort. She’s dressed me in the darkest of robes despite the heat so if the rag between my legs leaks no one can see the stain. Queens must hide their weakness. The pain is so sharp that nausea bubbles in my throat and my ears hum. I want to lie back amongst the cushions and cry a little to myself and then sink into sleep, but I can’t. I hold so many lives in my cupped hands. I swallow, hard, gulping the burning air.

The dust is in my eyes and nose, coating my hair and lips and my teeth. I can taste only grit and sand. The sun squats low over the dunes, a red-rimmed eye blinded by yet more dust. Everything hums with heat. The world outside the tent shimmers, unsteady. Each breath I take is hot and dry. I lean against the cushions but even they are warm as though heated by a previous feverish body. The slave fans me but he’s only stirring the air like a pot of stew and raindrops of his sweat patter onto the cushion beside me. Apollodorus curses the slave in Greek, Egyptian and then again in Latin for good measure and orders him to leave. The slave cringes away.

Charmian sits at my feet, chin resting in her hands. I want to reach out for her, brush her cheek, smooth the lacquer of her hair, but I don’t. If I die here, they’ll kill her too. I will win this fight for I am Egypt. My blood is the Nile. When it dries between my legs, it turns back into her mud.

We linger in the sands, waiting. Waiting. The sun rises and sets. The desert cicadas buzz and tick in my ears without pause, invading my thoughts. My tent might be woven silk while carpets and silks shield me from the hostile sun, but nothing can hide that my brother and his generals have driven me into exile. I worry for my little sister and smallest brother. Ptolemy has no affection for them. To him they are not siblings but rivals. They are so young, skulls still soft, too easy to kill. I should be there to protect them. Guilt nips at me alongside the flies and my anger pulses as a second heartbeat. I am the rightful Pharaoh and the queen, my father’s true heir. My grief for my father has faded like a bruise, only sore when I press down on it.

While I observed my father and learned how not to rule, Ptolemy gleaned nothing except how to complain, cheat and steal. Even now, he listens to his tutors and advisors and takes their flattery as truth. They do not love him, only the power his name bestows. He’s too lazy to learn. That is how I shall win. I may bleed, I may have fewer men in my army but I listen and I am clever.

Ours is not the only grubby war being fought. The whispers from Rome blow across the desert and reach us even here. They say that Rome itself is at war, the snake nipping at its own tail. My father’s old patron Pompey has fled across the seas, his ship chased by Caesar. There are rumours that Pompey makes for Egypt and Alexandria, ready to call in my father’s debt in exchange for soldiers and gold. In this matter alone, I do not envy my brother for to help Pompey will be to make an enemy of Caesar and it is not yet clear whom the gods favour. I have no love for Pompey, but I know little of Caesar. At least being stuck here, with dwindling supplies and men, neither general will be seeking my aid. Not until I’ve won.

From beneath the floating walls of the tent, I observe the men in my camp. My followers are ordinary Egyptians, the freedmen and farmers, merchants and riverboat men. I talk to them in their own tongue and worship their gods. I’ve gained their loyalty and love by speaking to them in their language, seeing the world through their words. I’m the first in my family to become truly Egyptian, but my brother is like all the other kings in my family, he doesn’t bother with the people and their words or their ways. He’s indolent and speaks only Greek for he believes the peasants are wretches – no better than ants. He doesn’t understand. A colony of ants can strip the flesh from a bull in hours, leaving only bones. Alone, a single ant is nothing, easily squashed with the ridge of a thumbnail, but together, they’re a black tide.

Now my men crouch in scraps of shade, too hot to talk. Too hot to fight, either with each other or for me. There are thousands of them, a river of men against the sand. Only the camels are nonchalant, chewing, coughing. We should not be here, far out in the desert with all these men. They are already starting to die. Our worst enemy here is the heat, relentless and never tiring, more vicious than my brother’s army. Horses and men drop silently into the sand. The bodies are dragged further off to dry out in the sun. I can smell death in the air, sweet and rotten. I know where the bodies lie from the path of the carrion birds. They point to the dead with dark wings, black scribbles across the sky pointing to my failure. We need to leave this place. We win or we die.

‘Any word from our spies?’ I ask Charmian, even though I know the answer.

‘Not yet, my queen.’

‘I’ll send out riders to look for them,’ says Apollodorus and I nod.

The sky is a lid pushing down. The tents provide only the barest shelter from the glare of the sun. Time stills and slurs, slowed by the heat. My advisors come in and squabble with one another over battle plans. It’s all pretend. They are as boys pushing stones around the dust. My brother’s army blocks our way into Alexandria. His vagabond army of pirates, thieves, disgraced slaves and thugs. If we run at them, we’ll dash ourselves to death as little ships upon the rocks. Each night at dusk, a few of my men slink away, bleeding into the black desert and escaping across the sand. We’ve been forced into a cramped retreat, where we lurk and slowly fade. My brother is not much more than a nasty and sulky child himself, a god-king whose too-big helmet slips down over his forehead, blinding him. He may not have the freedmen and farmers, but his supporters are the rich. He speaks only in bribes, but that’s enough to buy him an army. We are stranded here, unable to reach Alexandria, while he strolls barefoot through my palace, plucking fruit from my trees, sleeping in my royal chamber. I refuse to die here. I’m like water and I’ll find my way through the rockface. I’m only waiting until I can see the fissure. It’s there. I know it. I can sense it just beyond my fingertips. I pray to Isis. She’ll show me the way. I am her creature.

They bring figs and wine to my tent. I don’t eat them. Everything here tastes only of dust, it’s like consuming food from the underworld, only fit for the dead.

As the veil of dusk begins to fall, the fire of the sun is doused at last. Noise swells in the camp. Men rouse from their lethargy and begin to squabble and drink and prepare food. But the sound is more than evening chatter. Something stirs.

‘Come,’ I say to Charmian, rising and moving to the entrance of the tent. ‘The spies are returned.’

My guards rouse themselves and surge forward with sudden shouts. The intruder is stopped a little distance from my tent. Flanked by soldiers, I march outside. In the gathering dark, I observe a rider on a pale horse, its eyes black with flies. The rider waits, poised and still, trying to calm his horse, which is tossing its head and kicking up sand. A dozen spears are aimed at him and a dagger hovers at the horse’s throat. Shielding my eyes from the last of the fading rays, I study him closely but don’t recognise him. He’s not one of my spies.

Then, in the sinking light, I notice the symbol on the golden standard he holds. It’s a vast red eagle, wings outstretched. Apollodorus sees it at the same moment and shouts at the soldiers to lower their weapons. This rider is not one of my spies nor one of my brother’s men. He carries the standard of Rome.

‘I come from Caesar,’ cries the horseman. ‘I bring a message for Queen Cleopatra.’

I tell Apollodorus to order the slaves not to announce me, and I slip into the tent and observe the messenger unseen as he reclines on cushions, drinks one flask of sweet wine, then another in desperate gulps so it spills in a trail down his chin. His face and hair are grey from the desert, his eyes veined and red, he is desiccated from the heat. The wine stains his lips so they are bloody against his pallor. Sensing me, he glances up, and seeing me, he startles and now, frantic, struggles to rise, not wanting to be seated in the presence of a queen. He scrambles to his feet but sways so much that I’m worried he’ll fall before he delivers his missive. Apollodorus steadies him, gripping his arm.

‘You’ve drunk our wine, stranger. Now speak,’ I command.

The messenger bows his head. ‘Caesar desires peace. He insists this war between you and your brother must cease. You are to appear at the palace.’

‘In Alexandria?’ snaps Apollodorus, incredulous. He flexes his arms. They are inked all across the muscles in twisting designs, just visible against the darkness of his skin. The bones crack. The messenger nods, cautious.

‘Yes. Caesar resides in the royal palace now.’

‘And Pompey? Where is he?’ I ask.

‘Dead.’

‘Killed by Caesar?’ I ask.

‘Murdered, by your brother.’

I stare at him. My brother has made Caesar the most powerful man in Rome. He must have hoped that murdering Caesar’s enemy would win him Caesar’s favour. And yet the messenger does not express gratitude towards my brother. He has not come here alone to kill me. I must try to understand why he is here, pretending friendship from Caesar. Everything has shifted in a moment. Before, Caesar was one of two men scrapping for an empire. But now Caesar’s spoils include most of the world. His power is not as boundless as that of the gods, but it is close. And it is he who has the power to restore the living goddess Cleopatra to her throne.

‘Your brother asked great Caesar’s help in ruling Egypt,’ says the messenger.

I laugh aloud. My brother will have done no such thing. Caesar has decided that with Egypt weak and fighting itself, he will insinuate himself and plunder us. He thinks that he will install either my brother or me to rule by proxy when he returns to Rome. I am no Roman puppet. I will persuade him of my value, but not from out here in the desert.

‘Do not laugh, great queen. What I say is true. Caesar wishes to help. He takes neither your brother’s part nor yours. He’s impartial and seeks only peace.’

Apollodorus snorts. ‘Impartial? Yet asks the queen to come to Alexandria? Her brother’s spies will kill her at once. That’s certainly one way to end the war.’

The messenger shifts from foot to foot, uneasy, and turns to me again. ‘I’m ordered to request Your Majesty’s presence.’

Apollodorus’s temper flares. ‘Then where are all the Roman soldiers to protect her and offer her safe passage? Or perhaps they’re waiting just beyond the dunes?’

The messenger is silent. There is clearly no escort. Apollodorus snorts again.

Irritation prickles along my skin. Incredulous and angry, I turn to the messenger. ‘You come into the desert and offer only death. Death we have here in abundance. It lies in the sky’s furnace, beneath each rock and in the buzzing of the flies. Or is that really Caesar’s true offer? How he wishes to end this unhappy war?’

The messenger wipes a hand across his forehead, smearing the dirt into a paste. When he speaks again, his voice whines like the endless buzzing of the flies.

‘Queen and Pharaoh. Caesar desires only peace and for this conflict to end. Your father’s will declared that you and your brother were to rule together. Joint Pharaohs. As a friend of Egypt, Caesar wants to see that your father’s wishes are carried out.’

I am silent for a moment, considering. None of these messengers ever speaks the truth for they do not carry it. They are given false missives full of dissemblance and manoeuvres. I must seek the truth from within the lies; it hides there like a nightingale concealed amongst the trees. Caesar is a Roman. They’re all greedy for Egyptian grain and gold. They grasp and grope us with sweaty, pinching fingers until our skin is mottled with bruises. Of course Caesar wants peace. War is expensive. I try not to picture my vast grain warehouses, emptying like the tide and not refilled with the turn. Yet I don’t understand why Caesar doesn’t simply have me killed. Why doesn’t he send a legion out into the desert and cut us down, let us bleed out into the sand? It would be quick and efficient and I’d appreciated Caesar to be a man of ruthless expediency. My death would finish this war and I know better than anyone the weakness of my own position, and yet Caesar does not declare Ptolemy his choice. I know my brother well. He is the worm that rots the fruit. What has my brother done to offend the great man of Rome?

Dismissing the messenger, I give orders for him to be shown to a tent to rest, given food and slaves to tend to him. I sit for a moment, turning these thoughts in my mind like meat on a spit. A slave appears, whispers to Apollodorus, who slides out of the tent. I don’t know how I managed before Apollodorus came to me. By now, I trust him absolutely and cannot imagine being parted from him or Charmian. I swallow, lick a layer of grime from my lip. I look at Charmian, who rests her chin on my knee.

‘Is it a trick, my love?’ I ask. ‘To lure me to the palace and have my brother’s spies murder me as I try to enter? That way Caesar is not blamed for my death.’

Charmian gazes up at me, her eyes wide with fear. ‘It’s almost certainly a trick. Do not go.’

Fear has never stopped me doing anything. Self-preservation is sensible, but not fear for its own sake.

‘It doesn’t seem like Caesar’s taking my brother’s part,’ I say slowly. ‘My brother is a snot-nosed and vicious little fool but it usually takes time for people to hate him. He wears a silken cloak around his viciousness. Pompey’s murder with which he sought to ingratiate himself to Caesar seems to have had the opposite effect.’

‘It did indeed. A grotesque miscalculation. Do you want to hear how?’ asks Apollodorus, his voice treacly with glee.

I hadn’t noticed him slip back inside my tent, for a big man he moves with remarkable stealth, but as I watch him I can see he’s so pleased about something that he’s hopping from foot to foot like a child who needs to make water. I nearly laugh.

He walks quickly to my side, and now I see that two of my spies stand beside him, returned at last. I watch with interest. Apollodorus pokes the first man in the ribs, and he folds, like a snapped reed.

‘Speak.’

The man gasps and straightens. ‘I’ve come from the palace, where it is true Caesar now resides. He rules instead of your brother. Ptolemy sulks and scuffs around his rooms like a kicked dog.’

Apollodorus gives him another prod, hard.

‘Tell the queen how Ptolemy the fool offended Caesar.’

‘Caesar came to Egypt seeking his enemy, the Roman Pompey. He chased him to Alexandria but the winds favoured Pompey’s ships and that man arrived first. He sent word to your brother, who waited for him on the shore. Your brother, traitor and sneak, agreed to help Pompey and give him gold and grain to feed and pay his troops, to lend him an army to beat Caesar. It was all a lie. He sent a boat to bring Pompey from his ship to the shore and apologised that it was too small for Pompey’s bodyguards. The moment they were out of reach of Pompey’s ship and its arrows, your brother’s men stabbed Pompey to death, a whetted blade in the back that nicked his heart. The waters churned red from his blood.’

I close my eyes and imagine the scene. My brother, his plump body wrapped in purple robes that flap in the sea air, the scream of the gulls echoing the unfortunate Pompey’s death cries. Ptolemy’s advisors would have dripped this idea into his ear, like beads of oil to loosen wax. But its sneakiness and barbarity would have appealed to him. He’d have needed little persuasion.

Apollodorus’s face is grim, his mouth a narrow line. He gives the spy a nudge, gentler this time.

‘Go on.’

The man swallows, his angular Adam’s apple sliding up and down like the shuttle on a loom.

‘They laid the great Pompey at your brother’s feet, dead and cut like a fish, the gaping wounds like gills. His blood turning the white sand black, so much viscera that it took the turn of two tides to wash them all away. They say some of the rocks are still stained red.’

I can picture my brother on the shore, his robes dark with seawater and blood, face shiny with delight. The stink of salt and seaweed and flesh.

I glance at the messenger, who clears his throat with a sound like the scraping of a chair.

‘But, the weather is hot. They knew the body would soon sour and smell. And it wasn’t known how far behind Caesar was. So, your brother ordered Pompey’s head to be cut from the rest of his corpse. Then he had it pickled in brine.’

That I know, with absolute certainty, is an order that came from my brother himself. He takes fierce delight in acts of pain or desecration. He’s imaginative in his cruelties, delighting in suffering. I like to read. Ptolemy prefers to pull the legs off locusts.

Another thought stirs within me. A face from years before – Servilia. Her vengeance on behalf of her son has finally been served. His horrible death was fitting. His murder devious and horrid. Does she yet know? I wonder which of the gods – Roman or Egyptian – enacted her revenge. I say none of this aloud. I only ask, ‘And was Caesar delighted by this bloody gift? I suspect not, or his messenger would not be stuffing anchovies and pomegranates into his mouth. Instead we’d be feeding the carrion birds with our own flesh, killed by Caesar’s men.’

The messenger shrugs, shifts. ‘Indeed, my queen. When Caesar arrived a few days later, carried by sweetening winds, he was met on the beach by your brother himself. The very place where Pompey had been cut down. Your brother offered him Pompey’s head on a platter as though it were a fattened boar. He thought to flatter Caesar with the defeat of his enemy. Your brother thought he’d be overcome with gratitude and pleasure. But Caesar wept.’

‘Real tears?’ I wonder, puzzled at the display of grief. The murder was sneaky and shameful and yet it leaves Caesar with no rival, either in Rome or in the world. But I also understand that men like Caesar prefer to make the kill themselves, to watch the life leach away from their enemy’s eyes and know they themselves have done it. I am more used to having others act as my sword. I only order killings out of expediency and take no delight in the act. This does not make me soft or tender-hearted but careful. Bloodlust does not tug at my arm. Still, Caesar’s tears puzzle me. I had not considered him to be a man of feeling, only of ambition and want.

‘Apparently his tears were real indeed,’ says Apollodorus. ‘Pompey was his enemy but he was also a Roman. Once, he had been Caesar’s friend. He was a worthy adversary and your brother murdered him with deceit. There was no honour in his death. Your brother dishonoured Pompey and himself with his treachery.’

I am quiet for a moment, considering. I sense the fissure in the rock; the possibility of victory. My friends watch me, they wait. I speak slowly.

‘My brother has insulted Rome. He’s a fool who pulled the head off a Roman general as he used to pull the wings off flies. But he did not understand the consequence.’ I pause, thinking. My gaze rests on Charmian. ‘I do not believe that Caesar wishes to kill me,’ I say slowly. ‘But he does not yet wish to help me either. I must persuade him.’

*

We sit alone in my great tent. Just me, Apollodorus and Charmian while a trio of trusted slaves play music just outside so that the sound from their lutes floating out into the night air masks our conversation. There are spies everywhere, always. I set my girls to guard the area outside the tent, Iras in charge as silently they scour the desert for prying eyes and ears. No one notices my girls in the shadows. They are better watchers than the bulky soldiers, who are loud and brimful of swagger and too easily avoided. Charmian lies in Apollodorus’s arms. When it is only us three, I do not mind their affection for one another. I know that their love for me is beyond reproach. He places a kiss upon Charmian’s forehead but looks at me, his face tight with worry. I smile at my friends, hoping that my fear is hidden, like a dagger beneath my mantle. I must pretend bravery for their sakes.

As Apollodorus strokes Charmian’s arm, an idea forms in my mind. It is not what I want for myself, but I know what I must do.

‘I know other rumours about the mighty Caesar,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘He has a weakness for royal women. He likes to conquer them. I must let myself be taken. Then, perhaps I can conquer Caesar in turn.’

I speak with bravado I do not feel. I can hear the tremor in my own voice. Charmian shakes Apollodorus off, and he sits up, a scowl upon his face. Both of my friends know that I have never been to bed with a man. No man has ever glimpsed me naked or touched more than my hand while paying homage. I reach for wine and shrug, pretending courage. Apollodorus frowns, saying nothing while Charmian folds her arms, face tight with concern.

‘My queen—’

‘Peace. It is the only way. We’ve been waiting for fortune’s wheel to turn.’ I try to make my voice sound bright, full of certainty. ‘We must fight with the weapons we have. Caesar likes queens the way other men like to swallow oysters or join in duck hunts. My brother is vicious and he might have Alexandria and the larger army but I have something he does not.’

This war may turn not on the point of a sword, but a soft surrender of my body and my most private self. I try to swallow but find I cannot; my mouth is dry as if filled with dust choking me. My friends eye me with concern. Charmian and Apollodorus lie together almost every night, but it is a shared decision. Though they are slaves, they are free in this, to choose each other.

‘I must be brought to Caesar.’

They know I speak the truth and there’s no other way, but they’re frightened for me. I’m glad they’re scared. They can hold my terrors for me, and I can pretend to be unafraid.

‘Yes, my queen,’ says Apollodorus. He bends and kisses me on the forehead. No one is supposed to touch me – especially without invitation – yet the tenderness of his gesture moves me. The ball in my throat swells and my eyes itch with tears. I cannot cry. I cannot. I dig my nails into the pads of my palms. I am Cleopatra, father-loving daughter, earth-bound goddess, Pharaoh and Queen of the Red lands and the Black. I am unafraid. I fear neither Caesar nor death.

*

The problem of smuggling me into the palace remains. If any of my brother’s allies glimpse me, then my death will be swift and brutal. I trust only Apollodorus and Charmian. We’ve been sitting for hours puzzling, with the night spread thickly around us. The sky is salted with stars.

‘There can be no guards,’ I say. ‘No soldiers at all. They’ll only bring attention.’

Apollodorus looks unhappy but he doesn’t argue. He knows I’m right.

‘But how to hide you?’ he asks for the hundredth time.

I have no answer. Refreshments are set before us but none of us wants to eat. I toy with the peel of a lemon, wrap it round an olive, seal it up again. An idea stirs.

‘You can carry me?’ I ask. ‘Even for some distance?’

Apollodorus laughs, twitches the bulbous muscles on his arms so the ink writhes and moves. ‘Of course.’

‘If I’m hidden inside a box, can you still lift me?’ I gesture to a carved rosewood chest, engraved with silver and gold. It’s large enough for me to fit inside if I curl up.

Apollodorus nods, but I can see from his expression that he’s dubious. The box is large and bulky and will add to the weight for Apollodorus. Inside, it will be hot and cramped. When I emerge in Caesar’s presence, I need to look enticing and not half-addled from heat and stuffiness. The box won’t do.

‘What else do slaves carry?’

‘Trays of food, jugs of beer,’ says Charmian.

‘I can’t hide in a jug. I’m not a water spirit.’

At that moment, Iras opens the flap of the tent and allows in a slave.

‘Set it down and leave,’ she orders.

The slave carries on her head a laundry bag, full of fresh linens for my bed. She puts it down and hurries back out.

All three of us stare at the large sack.

‘Is it possible?’ I ask.

Charmian is the first to move, going quickly to the laundry bag and tossing out the sheets and opening it wide.

‘My queen,’ she says.

I step in. It’s wide enough but not sufficiently tall if I stand. I crouch and Charmian pulls tight the cord.

‘Shall I?’ asks Apollodorus.

I’m starting to tell him that of course he needs to try and lift me, but my voice is muffled and he’s already picking me up. I feel myself hoisted onto his shoulders, draped across them. I’m uncomfortable and feel more than a bit ridiculous squashed on my perch. His shoulders are hard and the bones dig into my hip. Yet, there’s no other choice. This is how I must be brought to Caesar, not in triumph on the back of elephants, not in my golden barge nor in a chariot pulled by tigers, but concealed in a laundry bag, like an olive hidden in a lemon skin.