Page 7 of Cleopatra

7

CLEOPATRA

W e travel across the desert the next night when it’s cooler. We’re dressed as common travellers, and I borrow one of Charmian’s tunics to wear. Apollodorus’s hand twitches constantly upon the long curved blade hidden at his hip. No one in the camp sees us leave, we slide out into the dark, absorbed as rain drops into the sea. I have Iras dress in my robes and jewels and stay in my tent with the slave girls and issue orders for none to enter – Cleopatra is busy considering her reply to Caesar. If there are spies, the trick won’t last long but it should be enough to grant us a head start across the desert. We travel swiftly, Apollodorus on one camel, and Charmian and I sharing another. Her arms are fastened around my waist, her chin rests on my shoulder.

We skirt to the west, keeping clear of the spreading camp of Ptolemy’s army. They block the way for my soldiers, as a dyke keeps back the pressing body of water, but we are only a few drops and we shall seep through.

Dawn reaches out across the sky with long red fingers. The sea glints in the distance, smooth and grey, and beyond it, Alexandria. Low cloud shrouds my city, making it appear insubstantial – a city in a dream. I long to stop and rest, but we can’t. Every minute we linger is a minute more in which rumours I am here could chase us down. Apollodorus alternately cajoles the camels and hisses at them, lashing their backs with sticks. Neither approach has any appreciable effect on the camels, but it seems to calm Apollodorus. The last star slides behind the curtain of sky, veiled till dusk. The sun rises fully above the dunes, the world blinks awake, and already there’s a whisper of heat against my skin.

The sun floats high, gold inlaid into lapis blue. We haven’t paused and I’m saddle-sore. My arms hurt from gripping the reins and the dust is everywhere – in my eyes, my ears, rubbed into my hair. Deep in my belly, I ache, still bleeding, the rag between my legs is sodden and chafing. Apollodorus sings in Latin of the olive groves and clear seas of his childhood home in Sicily, his voice deep and low. Charmian smiles a small private smile of deep pleasure as she murmurs the words. I understand that he has sung this song to her before.

At last, we approach the coast and I see the curve of the bay spread out below, the deep blue waters vanishing into the vivid blue of the sky. Tiny sails like gull wings speckle the water. Suddenly we dip too low, the sea vanishes and we pass through groves of marsh reed, the desert sand liquifying into mud. The camels trudge on, coughing and grunting, feet spattered. I’m relieved that it’s cooler in the shade, but only for a short while for the swamps are thick with mosquitos. I choke on them like smoke.

With relief, we emerge through the reeds and out onto the shore. The sand is sieved smooth, ghostly white. Apollodorus slides off his camel and halts us, putting a finger to his lips. I watch as he jogs along the beach, making sure we’re alone. He returns, satisfied, and lifts first me and then Charmian from the camel. He kisses her lightly on the lips as he sets her down. For a moment I stagger, hardly able to stand. Everything hurts. My thighs, my back and my eyes are red raw, I blink and blink but my lids grate against my eyes. I crave sleep like a parched man weeps for water. I’m also aware that I smell very strongly of camel. I know little of Caesar’s precise desires but I’m confident that this is not one of them.

Apollodorus takes a dozen paces up the beach and deliberately turns his back, granting us privacy, squatting in the sand and pulling out a short knife and beginning to whittle a piece of driftwood. My skin is filthy, streaked with grime and dust, and the waves are foaming around my feet and legs. Charmian and I pad out together near the breakwater and submerge ourselves in the waves. It’s surprisingly cool, and I lose my breath for a moment and then duck below the surface, floating there as the sea rinses the desert and my failures from my skin. My hair floats out like seaweed and my hands look strange in the water-light, as though they’re not mine at all. The salt stings my eyes and I dip down and hold my breath until my chest burns. I shall emerge reborn, the deaths that cling to me like burrs wash away, and as I stand in the waves, clean and slick with salt, I am Isis and Venus hatching from the sea, ready to win victory through Caesar’s heart.

I stand upon a cloth on the shore, naked, while Charmian douses me in fresh water, rinsing the salt from my bare skin and my hair. Taking oils from a bag, she rubs me with them, all along my legs, my belly, arms and back. She washes between my legs with oils scented with frankincense and takes a blade and shaves away all my hair. She gives me a rolled-up ball of cotton to slide inside myself. I open my legs and push it all the way up inside; it grates. Caesar must not know I’m bleeding. I know what men believe: that our monthly blood will sap their strength. He must believe the blood is merely evidence of my virginity. If he realises this is my monthly flow, then I risk his wrath and not his protection. Charmian presses another piece of folded cotton into my hand and a stoppered flask.

‘Here’s more water. And oil of roses so you can wash yourself again before you’re brought to him.’

I swallow hard, say nothing.

I sit naked on the cloth while she plaits and fastens my hair, scenting it with oils; her nimble fingers tug and weave. She traces kohl beneath my eyes and ochre on my lips. She has prepared me thousands of times, with twenty slaves to assist her, and yet here it is just us. My courtiers today are the darting fishes in the surf, the skinny-legged heron, the red crabs watching shyly from the rocks. I prefer my gullwing court. Finally, Charmian dresses me in a white dress embroidered with gold and silver thread and fastens golden amulets upon my arms, a pair of twisting serpents with emerald eyes, ruby bracelets on my wrist and last of all places the white diadem against my forehead, tying the pale ribbon at the back of my head. No other woman in all the world may wear this diadem, for I am a Greek queen as well as an Egyptian one. Caesar must know at once who has been smuggled into his chamber.

Apollodorus grunts – it is time. Charmian will wait here until we send for her. He kisses her and strokes her cheek. I take no leave of her and do not kiss her goodbye. I can’t bear the possibility that I might not see her again. If I think about it too much, I won’t be able to do what must be done. I feel her standing alone beside the surf as we walk away, watching us until we disappear.

We row across the Bay of Alexandria under the curtain of dusk. The sail is lowered to make it harder to spot the little boat and I sit at the prow on a coil of rope, concealed beneath a blanket. Neither of us speak. My mind is full of the task to be performed and endured. The harbour is scoured by customs men, looking to seize smuggled goods rather than smuggled queens, but the risk to me is the same should our boat be searched. We chose darkness but there is no true darkness in the harbour, for the massive tower of the Pharos lighthouse presides over the mouth of the bay, a vast white monument needling the sky, taller than the pyramids of Giza. The pyramids crown the desert while the lighthouse governs the waters with fire. The crimson furnace at the top blazes out across the waves, scattering the darkness. Yet tonight I don’t feel pride in its brilliance, only frustration that the light it spreads is so clear that we are forced to cling to the edges of the shadows, hoping we’re not spotted. My breath still catches as we approach Pharos Island. On the top of the lighthouse I see the vast golden statue of Alexander the Great as Helios burnishing bright in the reflected light of the fire, never dimming.

As we near the shore I ease myself into the laundry bag, but the boat is rocking, and I grab the side to stop myself from falling. Charmian has stitched together a longer bag, woven from hessian, and I stand upright to draw it up over my head. When it’s closed I can see only a little through the small gap at the gathering at the neck. My heart is pounding in time to the water slapping against the wood of the hull and my mind bubbles with doubts. I hope the audacity of my scheme will appeal to Caesar. That he will find it enticing and bold and not ridiculous. It is too late now to change course. I hear Apollodorus jump out and drag the boat up onto the slipway. It judders and I fall, unable to steady myself.

‘One day they’ll weave stories about tonight, and they will not say that we hesitated or that we were afraid. They won’t know,’ I say, wanting to reassure myself as much as him.

A moment later I’m hoisted up, and I’m slung across Apollodorus’s shoulders. It’s undignified and uncomfortable. I do not want to die like this if they discover me. The ignominy of being stabbed or strangled in a bag and then tossed into the waters to sink and rot.

There’s been rioting all through the docks and I see shops and stalls smashed, the smouldering ruins of carts. They loathe the presence of the Romans in our city and the civil war has thrown daily life into chaos. A layer of dust and smoke coats the city, tangling with the smell of fish guts and rotting seaweed. Where are all the Roman legionaries here to instil order?

Apollodorus walks quickly but not too fast – he must not seem afraid. I feel the crackle in the air. Peeping through the mouth of the bag, I see in the distance the vast outer stone walls of the palace. They stretch on and on, smooth and high and as unscalable as a cliff face. Then, for the first time, I observe a scattering of Roman soldiers. To my dismay they’re outnumbered by a company of soldiers belonging to my brother.

As we approach the palace I hear running footsteps, and then realise it’s the fierce pattering of my own heart. Apollodorus avoids the grand entryway and takes the route to the rear entrance. It’s apparent that they’re not expecting us to try and sneak in, for there is no increase in guards. This is typical of my brother and his arrogant advisors – they’re so certain in their own triumph and cleverness that they do not consider the possibility that I might find my way here. I’m relieved at their stupidity.

I feel Apollodorus stop, shuffle forward. We are in a queue of slaves waiting to enter the palace gates. We can hide amongst them, wolves in a pack of dogs. The waiting slaves are impatient, calling out to the soldiers to hurry up and let them inside, their burdens are heavy. It’s late and the soldiers, bored or tired, wave us in. I feel sick with excitement and fear. I’m back in the palace, my palace, my home. Although, this is a part of it that I have never seen and do not know. The palace is the size of a town, and these are the slave quarters, the kitchens and stores, places that as princess I did not visit. This labyrinthine under-palace of windowless stone tunnels is as foreign to me as the far reaches of Rome.

Then, after a time, I inhale the familiar perfume of savoury incense, myrrh, cedar and rosewood. We’re approaching the royal suites of rooms. Legionaries mingle with Egyptian guards. There’s a bustle of Roman soldiers, the clatter of swords at their hip. Apollodorus falls into step behind them, hoping that they will bring him closer to Caesar. There are dozens of sumptuous royal suites he could be in – we could search all night and not find him.

We follow in the trail of the Romans. They talk loudly with the swagger and confidence of Caesar’s men. They lead us outside, through the lemon and olive groves. The evening cicadas click and the wind stirs the branches, a melodic accompaniment to the music of the fountains. Perfumed water rushes through a series of rills and miniature waterfalls. I inhale deeply the citrus and herbal scent of home, my gardens. Apollodorus trails them at a little distance. I hear their feet on the gravel. I guess where we’re heading, to the grand guest villa in the palace grounds. It’s a careful, strategic choice. Safely concealed within the solid palace walls, but separate enough that Caesar can place his own guards at every entrance. I guess this is where the great Roman is quartered for there are more soldiers here than in any other part of Alexandria, thronging like bees around the entrance to the hive. The small group we have followed march up to a large set of ornate doors inlaid with silver and rubies and are waved inside. Apollodorus trails after them, trying to be concealed in their wake. The guard halts him, grabbing his arm.

‘What are you doing here, slave?’ demands one.

Apollodorus pats me in the sack. ‘Clean linens. A request came, asking for more.’

I feel the guard hesitate. He looks at Apollodorus, who slouches and stoops, making himself smaller. Time hums in my ears.

‘Go on then, slave,’ he says.

Apollodorus lumbers forward, careful not to seem too eager. No one is in a hurry of excitement to deliver linen. He steps into the largest chamber. There’s a bustle and hum of noise, and the musicians are packed into a corner. I unknot the mouth of the sack and peek. After the dust and barren filth of the desert, I notice perhaps for the first time the opulence of the room. The floor is lined with woven carpets from Persia and the skins of panthers and leopards, while the walls are inlaid with mosaics of ivory, tortoiseshell, bloody garnets and gold. The glister of precious metals is so great it’s like standing amongst the stars. Amongst the crowd, I can’t see Caesar at first. Then, I notice a man in a plain white toga edged with purple, seated in a wooden chair behind a desk covered with papers. I’ve seen a thousand images of Caesar, he floods the world with coins and statues bearing his likeness. There’s a minted army of Caesars spreading out across his conquered lands. And yet, even without having glimpsed so much as a dented coin, I’d know this to be him. There’s a space around him that no one dares to penetrate. The undisputed ruler of Rome and all its territories. He’s the sun, an embodiment of Helios or Ra, and all eyes are upon him. All faces in the room tilt towards him, like a field of flowers, turning their faces towards celestial light. And yet as an individual, he’s unremarkable. He is not beautiful or tall, nor surprisingly short. He’s neither young, nor so old. He is power, and yet he’s wholly ordinary. His hair is drawn back high over his forehead, thinning and speckled with grey. I watch as a slave pours him a drink – water, I observe, not wine.

We linger just inside the doorway. No one notices us. I had not considered this possibility. That I would be brought into the great man’s presence and be ignored. Whenever I have entered rooms in this palace before, there were columns of guards and slaves and musicians to announce the glory of my presence. At this moment, I lie draped across Apollodorus’s shoulders in a sack, hoping I am not too sweaty or bleeding. It would be clear to anyone glancing in our direction that Apollodorus does not really carry linen, but no one is interested in us. A slave with a burden is not worth attention.

‘Are you ready, my queen?’ he asks, not bothering to lower his voice amid the bustle and din.

‘I am,’ I reply.

Apollodorus strides forward and, to my surprise, he grabs a plate off the table and hurls it down upon the hard floor. It’s pure silver and the metallic sound rings out with a burst of noise as it clatters and rolls across the floor, piercing the chatter like captured thunder. Everyone stops, startled into silence, glancing around instinctively. Without hesitation, Apollodorus marches across the room to Caesar and kneeling, sets me down before him. Caesar’s guards rush to his side, swords raised, but Caesar halts them with a finger, curious. My heart rises into my throat, but I will myself to be calm. I am no prisoner. I am Queen of Egypt and I have tricked my way back into my palace through courage and cunning. I ease my way free from the sack, wriggling out, first my head, then shoulders, emerging like Venus from the waves, or a butterfly from its woolly cocoon, until I stand before him. They stare. The silence vibrates.

I do not smile. I do not flinch. My skin is soaked with oil of roses and gleams in the torch light, some drops have stained the hem of my linen dress. The gold serpentine amulets on my arms and wrists catch in the torch light, sending reflections spinning across the walls. Around my forehead is tied the white diadem. I could be naked, unadorned with any jewels, but Caesar would know me to be queen and Cleopatra by the diadem knotted in my hair.

Caesar stares at me, thin-lipped, eyebrows raised. He still says nothing. I can tell he’s surprised, even amazed. He is a man who can buy anything. Even me. I need his protection in exchange for myself. He’s seen too much of human nature and there is no novelty left, I am not even his first foreign queen. Death, conquest and the sunrise mean little to him any longer. And yet, I can sense that by my daring I’ve roused him from boredom, stirred him as if from a deep sleep. He summoned me here but did not really expect that I would arrive or not like this. It was more likely that I would be presented to him in pieces, hacked up and bloody as a joint of meat. Later, I will present him with treasures from my vaults, golden flutes and jewels and animal skins and silver vases and painted statues so lifelike they look as if they will walk behind him back to Rome, but this moment, the surprise of my arrival and the reprieve I offer from world-weariness is my true gift. I meet his gaze, unafraid and resolute. He will not cow me. His eyes are very dark, deep-set and intelligent, and I feel them measure me, he’s intrigued. That’s not enough for what I need; I must make him want me. Not only for his bed, but as queen and Pharaoh.