Page 8 of Cleopatra
8
CLEOPATRA
T he doors to the guest palace are locked and barred, sentries placed at every exit. None may enter or leave for Caesar does not want news of my arrival seeping out to my brother. He says it’s for my protection, but I sense that he also wants time to consider me, to decide which dice to call: mine or Ptolemy’s. He plays my friend, but really is yet to choose.
‘Bring the banquet quickly. We must have wine enough to drink Cleopatra’s health,’ he declares.
Goblets are passed around and the assembled Roman citizens drink to me, and again I see that Caesar only sips to toast and then discards his wine for water.
The feast is laid out on the finest silver and gold plates. It’s a barbed compliment. The plates are mine and the food is grown in my fields, the slaughtered beasts fattened on my grass and grain, trout fished in my rivers and prepared in my kitchens by slaves who belong to me. Yet, he orders it all in my honour, as though it is his gift. And with bitterness, I understand that at present it is, for I am nothing without his strength. This hollow honour serves as a reminder of the precariousness of my position. I command nothing at this moment, not even myself. I’m here without a single servant, save Apollodorus, as a guest in my guest’s quarters. As I study Caesar, I can tell that he is choosing to remind me of my vulnerability and display his power through lamb dressed with pomegranate, spiced eels and honeyed dormice instead of at the point of a sword. I feel it just as sharply, but I voice no objection. I don’t dare. Not yet.
He consumes nothing but already he looks ready to eat me, I am a morsel for a monarch. I swallow, force a smile. I wish I was taller and wasn’t forced to glance upwards to meet his eye. I raise myself upon the balls of my feet. It’s late and the slender moon is high and bright outside the window.
‘Queen Cleopatra. We are pleased to find you here.’ He speaks to me in my native Greek.
I answer him in his own Latin with a smile. ‘I understood that Caesar must be obeyed. But if you did not expect me to come, perhaps that isn’t true after all.’
He smiles. ‘It is true.’
‘Then it must also be true that I was expected, if no one surprises Caesar.’
‘I am not surprised. Pleased.’
It’s evident from his expression that he is both. He is staring at me without blinking. I long to edge away from him. But I can’t, mustn’t. I recollect the million Gauls that he boasted of killing. A vast number of dead that my brother marvelled at, as others would an exquisitely decorated vase. And yet, I do not fear Caesar’s hurting me. He is careful. It’s written in the leanness of his physique while surrounded by epicurean delicacies. His sobriety while being pressed with cups of wine. He is a man who always looks before he treads and I’m sure that for him, murder is expedient and I’m safe for so long as my life and body are useful to him as tools of politics and pleasure. I smile, try to look pleased and ignore the hurry of my heart.
‘You are fairer in flesh than we had hoped,’ he says.
‘Ah, so you hoped for me,’ I reply, smiling.
‘And me? Am I as you expected?’
I have to be careful. I cannot tell him that he’s more handsome than I’d imagined for he’ll know it to be a lie and that will traduce me in his opinion. Yet, I must still flatter him. I glance up at him through the lashes that Charmian has skilfully curled and thickened with kohl.
‘Now we see you, our fears are purged. For you are kinder, more benevolent than we dared dream,’ I say.
‘You dreamed of us?’ he asks, his voice soft.
‘Caesar is the noblest prince in the world. Any woman with spirit would dream of such a jewel. If you did not exist then we would be forced to conjure you in thought, if not in flesh.’
My words are thickly spread with honey and I hope not over-sweetened for Caesar, but he seems amused and gives a slight smile as he replies. ‘Caesar would be a beast without a heart not to be moved by Cleopatra. Your plight touches us. And your words stir pity within our breast.’
‘My plight, my lord? I am the noble Queen of Egypt. Pharaoh of the Red Lands and Black. I want no pity,’ I say, my voice rising with indignation.
We both know my declaration of power to be absurd. It’s true that I am a queen but I am a queen forced to conceal herself in a laundry bag. My treasuries are stuffed yet I cannot touch their gold. My fields are ripe but I cannot reap their harvests. I have an army packed with loyal men, but lodged so far away that I cannot command them. Yet in the game of princes I must pretend that I already control and own that which I seek. Caesar does not laugh nor contradict me, for in my position he would do the same. He only says, ‘It is good fortune indeed that you are here. And we hope our good fortune will grow further.’
It’s clear by the eagerness of his expression precisely where and in what regard he wants his fortune to grow. I offer him my palm. ‘Is it true you can read fortunes? Tell me, pray, what will be mine tonight?’
He kisses my hand with dry lips, then keeps hold of it, his fingertips caressing my knuckles. Instinctively, I long to yank it away but I don’t. I feel as if I’m willingly holding my hand in the fire.
‘Come, let us have our fortunes told tonight. Fetch the soothsayer,’ declares Caesar. ‘Let us hear what she has to say about the meeting of Caesar and Cleopatra. Shall we yet knit together our kingdoms and our hearts?’
A few minutes pass while the soothsayer is found and then brought before us. She bows first to Caesar and then to me. I already dislike her for acknowledging a mere consul before a queen, although grudgingly I concede that perhaps in the circumstance she can do little else. She’s a young woman, not a priest as I’m used to. She’s too thin, her bony wrists jutting out of her tunic like twigs that could be snapped. Her eyes are as dark as polished chestnuts and dart around the room, half afraid as though she already dreads the fortune she must reveal. She squats and pulls out a squab pigeon from her tunic, produces a short blade and slits the bird throat to belly. It dies without a sound.
‘You must pull the entrails,’ she instructs, holding out the bird to me.
I shove my fingers into the warmth of the pigeon and pull out warm, sticky viscera.
‘Now give them to Caesar to cast upon the flames.’
He scoops the bloody mess from my hands and marches over to the fireplace, hurls it on the embers then cleans his fingers on a linen proffered by a slave.
The soothsayer watches the entrails flare and spit and for a moment the room fills with the smell and hiss of burning meat. There is a nervous unease amongst the watchers as to what fate will be revealed by the flames. They do not want me for Caesar as companion, plaything or ally. I have no friends here. They would not have cared if I had not made it alive to Caesar. They consider this a petty war between siblings, and that one Pharaoh is enough and each option as bad as the other. The Roman war is over, Caesar untouchable, and now they want to raid our treasuries and hurry back to Rome, pockets sagging with loot. I can read the thoughts upon their faces as easily as I can the books in the great library. They display their resentments and secrets like feathers in their hats. Caesar I cannot read beyond his simple desire for me. He has learned to mask his thoughts behind a placid, weary smile. So long as Caesar prefers me to my brother, what they think doesn’t matter. I turn to the auger with open arms.
‘Give me a good fortune,’ I say.
‘I cannot give, I only see,’ she replies.
‘Then see a good fortune for me.’
‘You shall be fairer in his eyes than yet you are.’
Relief pulses through me, warm and fluid. It is his affection which will make me more beautiful. Caesar will love me or at least dote upon me. I hope this affection will persuade him to lend me his armies. The risk and danger I undertook in coming here will be rewarded. Caesar studies me with increased interest. The soothsayer closes her eyes and breathes the acrid smoke in deeply. I wonder that she doesn’t choke.
‘And this union shall be fruitful. But the fruit will outlive the tree,’ she says.
My relief is undercut by instant disquiet. Perhaps I ought to rejoice in the prospect of bearing Caesar’s child, but he is still a stranger to me. There is no bond between us yet. And after any affection fades, he will slit me, gut me like the pigeon if it better suits his interests than bedding me. Most of all I don’t like that the soothsayer blends her prophecy of birth with death. All that Caesar’s supporters will hear is that the soothsayer foretold his death and they will remember my presence in that moment, my part in the prophecy. To me it feels dangerous and inauspicious. Yet, Caesar himself appears unperturbed by the mention of our prospective children or his own demise. He shrugs. ‘May it be so that all children outlive their parents.’
I long to ply the soothsayer with more questions but I bite my tongue. It is dangerous to ask when you are not already certain of the answer. For now, I must trust in fate and in Caesar. He takes my hand again. There is still a rind of blood beneath his nails.
‘Come, Cleopatra. We are two lions, I the elder and more terrible. And you, what kind are you?’
With this question, he leans forward and takes my chin in his fingers and kisses me. His lips are dry and warm, and his tongue prods at my teeth. I have no choice but to open my mouth. He tastes sour like wine left out too long in the sun.
He pulls away at last and I see that much of the crowd has withdrawn to another room, and yet half a dozen people as well as several slaves remain. Caesar is entirely unconcerned by the audience. He lives always in company and no longer notices them. This is true for me too, and yet those present are not my friends, nor are they my slaves, and for this, the moment that is to come, I do not desire spectators. I cannot ask them to leave. I cannot show I am afraid.
‘Rare Egyptian,’ he says softly.
A slave steps forward and unfastens the sword and belt from Caesar’s person. Another moves to me and waits for me to give her permission to remove my dress. I hesitate only for a moment. I nod and raise my arms. She pulls the simple linen over my head. I stand before him, naked and resolute, wearing nothing but jewels and the diadem upon my forehead. He waits. Looks at me, my bare skin a mere document to be assessed and appraised. He does not touch me or speak. I do not cover myself for I am Egypt. I am unashamed. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Apollodorus turn and face the wall. He will not witness my debasement. The kindness of his gesture touches me, and a knot of tears catches in my throat like a fishbone. I swallow it down, hard. I don’t want Caesar to know what this surrender costs me.
‘Come,’ he says, not without gentleness. ‘I am stirred by Cleopatra. Come, my queen, I shall teach you about desire.’
I step towards him. I hope I do not bleed. I hope that if I do, he will not be angry.
He kisses me again and I force myself to respond. My fists are clenched by my sides and deliberately, I uncurl them. My shoulders are set, stiff, but Caesar doesn’t seem disturbed. He reaches up and tugs hard at the braids of my hair, forcing back my head and exposing my throat. He inhales the scent of my skin and, leaning closer, whispers to me low, in Latin and then more slowly in Greek. His breath tickles my ear, hot, damp, sour. I try to answer him, to croon back tender nothings as is expected, but I can’t. My lips and body won’t obey me. I conjure the image of Charmian instead. The two of us on the beach. The cool waters over my head. The slap of the waves against my skin. I am not here. Caesar lifts me and lays me down on the bed. He looms above me for a moment, looking down at my body, and I long to cover myself with my hands, but queens aren’t embarrassed or shy. His expression reveals a faint trace of satisfaction, I wonder if he has the same expression when surveying the ruins of a vanquished army. A knot catches again in my throat. I swallow and see instead of Caesar the sky above the beach, the swirl of the clouds against the blue sky. He nudges my legs open. Without meaning to, I stiffen and resist. He chuckles, and nudges them again, more forcefully this time. I must allow this invasion. I open my legs. I will myself to look at him, steadfast. He smiles. I don’t smile in return. I’m deep beneath the water, exhaling bubbles that sail upwards to the surface. I feel his teeth rasp at the tender skin on my shoulder and throat. I make no sound at all. I can’t for I’m underwater and no sound is possible here. He thrusts into me, again and again, grunting. It hurts, but only a little. His sighs are the lapping of the waves. He thinks he takes me, but I’m not here at all. He cannot reach me.
I wake to find that Caesar has already risen. I glimpse him through the open doorway already at his desk, reading papers while supplicants buzz around him. And yet, as I turn, I see that I’m not alone in the bed. To my amazement, I see Charmian beside me, her face close to mine, her breath upon my cheek. For a moment, I think she is still part of my imagination, that I only conjure her, such is the force of my need for her. Then I reach out and pinch her cheek, it’s warm and soft between my fingers.
‘How are you here? How dare you risk coming? I did not order it,’ I whisper, joy warring with reproach.
‘Apollodorus sent for me. I travelled with a dozen of your private guards and Iras. Caesar has given orders that they be allowed into the palace.’
‘You brought Iras too?’
Charmian laughs. ‘You did not think she would be left behind? We are yours.’
I’m relieved to have Charmian and Iras as well as my own guard here. Caesar’s soldiers will only protect me so long as our interests are allied, and I’m too happy to see Charmian to scold her any further. I let her embrace me, and inhale the familiar scent of her hair, her skin. Standing, she dismisses the other slaves, and shoulders the massive door shut, shielding us from Caesar’s gaze so that to my relief, we are alone.
‘How are you? Was he gentle?’ she says, her expression tight with worry.
I understand that she asks me not as a slave, but as my friend and as a woman. I try to tell her, but I can’t. I know that she lies with Apollodorus, but it is not the same. She chooses to sleep in his arms when she is not my bedfellow. She gives her body to him willingly and with enthusiasm – judging by the noises and laughter I hear – and also with tenderness, even love. My gift to Caesar of my body was given in lieu of the gold I cannot yet offer, the jewels and grain that are no longer in my power to give. And yet, even if I had given him all the riches in Egypt, I know that he would have asked for me too.
She stares at me, her eyes big with worry, and I force a smile. I don’t want to talk to Charmian about what it cost me. There is no time for how I feel, not now. There is no room for Cleopatra the woman. I must not think about Caesar fucking me, but lock the thought tight away, a viper in a jewel box. For tonight, I must please him again, if he wishes. And tomorrow. I kiss Charmian’s cheek and say nothing; she grips my hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
‘Don’t. Not another word,’ I reply.
A moment later, Iras enters, carrying in jugs of warm water. She kneels at my feet, and presses her lips against my hand. I am no longer quite so friendless. The two slaves set out clean linens and I climb out of bed and squat over the basin. There is blood smeared on my thighs and I wash it away, turning the water red. Charmian tries to wash me, but I shake my head. I want to cleanse myself. I don’t want her to see. This is mine. I scrub and scrub for I need to sluice Caesar out of me, rinse his smell from me, and I scratch at my wet skin with my nails, reddening it. The soothsayer says that one day I will bear his child, but today, this minute, I want to be clean and free of him. His scent lingers on my skin. Beneath the smell of sweat and his pleasures, there is the sharp stench of age. He is powerfully built and yet there is loose skin covering the muscles on his arms, his bald pate is mottled and flakes. He wants me not only for my name as Egypt and as a foil for my brother: I can feel that it is my youth and spring brightness that tugs at him, as if he hopes that through proximity to my vitality, he can pause the turn and creak of the earth. I must make him believe that it is possible.
I reach inside myself and slowly pull out the bloodied cloth. The basin fills with beads of dark blood that marble the water.
‘Did he notice?’ whispers Charmian, glancing over her shoulder even though there is only Iras here.
I shake my head.
Iras hands her dry linens and the two slaves pat me dry. There are red and black bruises blooming all over the fleshy tops of my arms and on my thighs from his amorous pinches. I hate that he has marked me as if I’m a slave and not a queen. He was not unkind and was gentle enough, his grip on my skin was during the service of passion, but I did not want him for myself or my own desires. I wanted him only for Egypt. I sensed his weariness even as he moved within me and as he whispered to me I heard the echo of other well-worn sighs. We both pretend to each other; we lie together and lie with our sighings. I feign desire and he that the pleasures I offer him are new.
A sudden eruption of noise outside the windows disturbs my reverie. Iras runs to the windows and slams the shutters closed. From the gardens there are enraged shouts and then the sound of a scuffle. A pot is hurled and breaks against a wall with a rain of shards. I hear cursing in a colourful blend of Latin, Greek and Egyptian strong enough to make a maiden blush. Yells and cries float in through the shutters. Iras is rigid with fright beside the window and Charmian unfastens an ornamental dagger from the wall and stands beside me, the jewelled hilt glinting. I don’t know how deft she is with a knife, but I know she will use it without hesitation to protect me.
There’s a bang and Apollodorus shoves open the door to the room, and on his signal my personal guards race to where I’m standing wrapped only in a sheet and surround me, swords and shields raised. I’m relieved to see them and realise that they must have been stationed outside my chamber for some time to get here so fast. Charmian quickly straightens the silken diadem around my forehead. If I’m about to die, then it will be as queen. Iras comes to stand with us and on Charmian’s signal is about to help me into my dress, when I recognise a petulant voice yelling amongst the cacophony: Ptolemy. My brother. My husband. My enemy. I stay Charmian’s hand. I want him to find me naked, there is power in my nudity and I want it to be clear out of whose bed I have just tumbled. The yells continue and I flinch in disgust – my brother’s shouts are shrill and loathsome. He has never known how to act with the dignity befitting a king.
‘Let me in, you fools! You loathsome fucks. Where’s my bitch whore of a sister?’
There is hammering on the outer doors.
‘Let him in. His tutors too. But not his soldiers,’ commands Caesar from the adjoining room, his voice now that of the general.
There is the slap of running footsteps on tile and more shouting. Then the doors to my chamber swing open and, apparently not expecting them to be unlocked, Ptolemy half falls inside, sprawling on the ground. He’s hauled to his feet by his commanders, the eunuchs Pothinus and Achillas. The pair grimace when they see me, as though I’m a rotten, dead thing brought reeking into the palace. Ptolemy straightens, standing flanked between them, and I see that his crown is on crooked, as though he’s only trying it on, a pretend boy-king. I stand absolutely still and naked while Charmian combs my damp hair. Achillas stares at me with unconcealed distaste, his lip curls. I meet his eye and he looks away. My feet are bare, and I am not yet decked in my jewels. Only the diadem marks me out as queen but it doesn’t matter. I hold up my arms and allow Charmian to tug the linen dress over my head, then step forward to greet Ptolemy, who recoils from my outstretched hand as if he’s just gulped curdled milk.
‘Hello, cunt,’ he says.
‘Brother, dearest. My love for you is as fathomless as the sea. It’s always an honour and a delight to be in your presence.’
‘You whored yourself to him. How dare you? Caesar is mine.’
I want to laugh at the absurdity of his remark, as if Caesar is a child’s rattle to be tussled over between two infants.
Caesar himself joins us and his presence withers Ptolemy’s next retort. Ptolemy falls at Caesar’s feet, prostrating himself before him and touching his feet.
‘Do not listen to her. She’s a serpent. She slithered out of the Nile.’
Caesar stares at him with distaste, repulsed by the display. As he grovels before him, Ptolemy’s crown falls off entirely and rolls to land before Caesar’s feet, only the white diadem beneath remains on his forehead. Caesar looks at the crown with antipathy, with a similar expression I imagine to the one when he beheld Pompey’s severed head. I wait to see if the Roman will hand the crown back to my brother. He doesn’t. He carefully steps around it. Ptolemy’s imps lurk behind him, faces rigid with dismay. Achillas stoops to retrieve the crown and tries to place it on Ptolemy’s head, but the boy moves away oblivious so that the eunuch is forced to try again, chasing him with the crown until at last he gives up the attempt and clutches it to his chest. It’s a moment of pathetic ignominy but Ptolemy hardly seems to notice. His voice quivers with rage.
‘I invited you into my palace, great Caesar, as my honoured guest. Have I not treated you with loyalty and respect? And then, you collude with her? I am betrayed.’
He is pale with anger and stamps his foot in a display of petulance.
‘I am friend to you both,’ replies Caesar evenly.
‘Yes, but better friend to her,’ hisses Ptolemy.
Caesar ignores his peevish innuendo as he would a child. He won’t be riled.
‘Your father willed you to rule together. It’s the duty of Rome to see his wishes upheld.’
As he says these words, I realise that I haven’t won Caesar yet. I may have lain in his arms, but he isn’t declaring for me alone. However, I observe ruefully to myself, ruling with my brother in Alexandria is a stronger position than the one in which I found myself yesterday when I commanded only sand and a ragtag army. I’ve ruled with Ptolemy before. And over him. I will get what I want in the end.
Ptolemy however is furious. He went to bed believing himself sole Pharaoh, certain I was driven out and defeated. And now Caesar is telling him to share his crown with me. Ptolemy never could share toys or slaves. He would rather the spinning top or ball was broken in two than surrender it, the slave torn apart.
Caesar is also lying. Or at least speaking a convenient half-truth: he does not care what my father wanted – Rome desires only what is best for Rome. He uses my father’s will as a shield and ruse. I must persuade Caesar that it is better for Rome and him for me to rule alone, that while I am clever and useful, my brother is reckless and vicious, his advisors indifferent to the command of Rome. I shall make my desires Caesar’s. I can see Ptolemy’s eunuchs squawking in his ears. I hope they are urging a pretence of restraint and civility. Actually I don’t. Let him be feckless and cruel. I want Caesar to see him for what he is.
I’m fortunate then because Ptolemy is all fire and heat and idiocy. He shrugs them off and, turning, marches from the room. He strides across the gardens, scattering the slaves tending the roses like playing counters on a board, and rushes to one of the open curved guard towers that peer out over the city. Caesar signals for soldiers to pursue him. I hurry after, worried as to what Ptolemy is intending. Charmian and Apollodorus run alongside me, and Caesar joins us, only a little behind, his guards swarming behind Ptolemy. As we approach, my brother throws open one of the lookout windows of the tower and leans out. There is a roar from the crowd gathered below like the swell of surf in a storm. My stomach lurches. I realise that he or his eunuchs have been planning this from the moment they realised I’d snuck into the palace. It’s all laid out. I turn to Caesar, my heart beating fast.
‘Tell your guards to stand back,’ I tell him. ‘If the crowd see Ptolemy manhandled by a Roman, they’ll detest you more than they do already. You’ll be doing what he wants – he needs them to riot. He wants them to storm the palace.’
Caesar doesn’t hesitate. He knows I’m right and commands the guards, who fall back out of sight.
With a smug smile, Ptolemy approaches a stool which I realise has been carefully placed there for this very moment. I worry for the safety of the stool, for my brother is like the other Ptolemies: fat as an overstuffed partridge, the filling oozing out. He does not understand the restraint of any appetite – for food, flesh or violence. I’m certain that his eunuchs have summoned this crowd and paid for it. The seething mass below are all Ptolemy’s supporters. Caesar hisses orders to his men, who start to crawl to Ptolemy on their bellies, below the view of the window and out of sight of the crowd. But they’re not fast enough for before they can reach him, Ptolemy stands on the stool and climbs onto the sill of the window so the crowd can all see him.
‘I am betrayed. Egypt is betrayed! The Roman chooses a whore to rule over you and not Ptolemy’s son. Rome does not care a jot for you.’
With that, he rips the white diadem from his forehead, showing his debasement at the hands of Rome, and hurls it into the crowd. They roar and scream. The cries are so loud that I almost put my hands over my ears. These are his people, his paid-for friends. The gods know, he’s plied them with enough gold to love him. He holds up his hands, and wobbles precariously. Then, to my astonishment, Ptolemy jumps and falls. I think for a moment, with a lurch of my heart, he’s choosing death over defeat but as I run to the window and look out, I see that he’s been caught by the crowd. I’m astonished they can support his bulk, and I worry briefly for those he landed upon. But they don’t seem to care. They don’t see a corpulent and vicious tyrant, but the protector of their own corruptions. They cradle him rapturously, screaming blessings, and then, on spotting me at the window, spray curses upon me and Rome. A cup is hurled towards my head. It misses, shattering on the wall beside me, but is followed quickly by other, fouler objects. I hurriedly withdraw. I am not loved here. My friends are elsewhere. The Alexandrians will use my lying with Caesar as an excuse to hate me even more. Those loyal to me will be grateful, and understand that I lie with him for Egypt, for them, to purchase Rome’s favour. They will love me more, knowing that I offer myself to him, that we might yet be free.
‘Go out there, get him back. Bring him here,’ yells Caesar. ‘That boy wants bloodshed.’
‘Send my guards to fetch him back,’ I say. ‘He must be captured by fellow Egyptians or Rome will never be forgiven.’
Caesar absorbs the truth of this, then turns to his commander.
‘Flavius, conceal yourself amongst them in Egyptian garb. Take a dozen men with you similarly attired, and then take with you a company of the queen’s guard. Roman or Egyptian, they are under your command.’
The soldiers depart apace, and we all stand listening to the screams of the crowd for a moment, then Caesar turns abruptly and returns to the guest palace. The eunuchs cower, simpering apologies. Caesar pays them no attention. If I know that they’re behind Ptolemy’s escapade then Caesar does too. They want a mob to attack the palace, burn it, kill us all. The problem is that they might manage it. I’ve only been in Alexandria for less than a day, and even I’ve noticed the lack of Roman soldiers.
Caesar strides back into the palace, leaving me and Charmian and Apollodorus alone.
‘Come,’ I say, leading them back towards the olive groves.
We walk amongst the trees, dusty silver in the morning light. I am silent for a long minute as I think what I ought to do. They both watch me, waiting.
‘Caesar is cautious. He lacks his usual strength,’ I say.
‘His legions are missing. He only has four with him,’ says Apollodorus. ‘There are more being sent from Rome. But, until they arrive, he is exposed.’
‘Then, we must help him in this moment of vulnerability. Show him our loyalty now, so that when his strength is restored, it’s us that he favours,’ I say. ‘Apollodorus, send for our men in the desert. Tell them to come closer to the city. As close as the generals dare. Have them ready, should they be needed.’
Now I am back in the city, I understand Caesar stays in the palace to rest his men and assert his dominance over Egypt, but also because he’s trapped until more legions arrive to relieve him.
‘Pompey is defeated but Caesar cannot cement his victory,’ I say. ‘The Alexandrians hate Caesar even more than they loathe me. Given a chance, they’d kill us both.’
‘I shall never let that happen, my Pharaoh and queen,’ says Apollodorus.
I kiss his cheek and squeeze Charmian’s hand, and she tries to smile, but she can’t manage it. I’m relieved to have my two friends with me. But, even with Caesar here, I’m afraid.