"Goddess on Earth, Daughter of Ra, Incarnation of Isis, Queen of Queens," said the High Priest of Ptah, getting to his feet in an expertly managed, gradually lessening series of additional obeisances while his priests remained prostrated.
"Sem of Ptah, Neb-notru, wer-kherep-hemw, Seker-cha'bau, Ptahmose, Cha'em-uese," said Pharaoh, smiling at him lovingly. "My dearest Cha'em, how good it is to see you!"
The only item of apparel which distinguished Cha'em from his underlings was a necklace-collar. For the rest, he shaved his head and wore nothing save a thick white linen skirt which began just below his nipples and flared gently to mid-calf. The necklace-collar, the badge of office of the High Priest of Ptah since the first Pharaoh, was a wide gold plate extending from his throat to the tips of his shoulders and down to his nipples like a pectoral. Its outer border was studded with lapis lazuli, carnelian, beryl and onyx in a much thicker, twisted gold band which was fashioned into a jackal on the left side and two human feet and a lion's paw on the right side. Two zigzagging courses of heavy gold connected the lapis nipple studs with his throat. Over it he wore three carefully distributed necklaces of gold rope which ended in carnelian-studded discs; over these he wore six more necklaces of gold rope which ended in even-sided jeweled crosses, three lower, three higher.
"You're disguised," he said in Old Egyptian.
"The Alexandrians have deposed me."
"Ah!"
Cha'em led the way to his palace, a small blockish building of limestone painted with hieroglyphs and the cartouche of every High Priest of Ptah who had ever served the creator-god who made Ra, who was also Amon. Statues of the Memphis Triad of Ptah flanked the door: Ptah himself, a skullcapped straight human figure wrapped in mummy bandages to his neck; Sekhmet, his wife, lioness-headed; and the lotus god Nefer-tem, crowned with the sacred blue lotus and white ostrich plumes.
Inside was cool and white, yet vivid with paintings and ornaments, furnished with chairs and tables of ivory, ebony, gold. A woman came into the room at the sound of voices; she was very Egyptian, very beautiful in that expressionless way the caste of Egyptian priests had perfected over the millennia. She wore a black wig cut to bare the tips of her shoulders, a tubelike under-dress of opaque white linen and a flare-sleeved, open over-dress of that fabulous linen only Egypt could make—a transparent, finely pleated.
She too prostrated herself.
"Tach'a," said Cleopatra, embracing her. "My mother."
"I was for three years, that's true," said the wife of Cha'em. "Are you hungry?"
"Have you enough?"
"We manage, Daughter of Ra, even in these hard times. My garden, has a good canal to Nilus; my servants grow for us."
"Can you feed my people? There are only three, but poor Apollodorus eats a lot."
"We will manage. Sit, sit!"
Over a simple meal of flattish bread, some small fish fried whole and a platter of dates, all washed down with barley beer, Cleopatra told her story.
"What do you intend to do?" asked Cha'em, dark eyes hooded.
"Command you to give me enough money to buy myself an army in Judaea and Nabataea. Phoenicia too. Potheinus was talking of raiding their granaries, so I imagine I won't find it hard to enlist good troops. When Metellus Scipio quit Syria last year he left no one of ability behind—Syria has been left to its own devices. Provided I avoid the coast, I should have no difficulties."
Tach'a cleared her throat. "Husband, you have something else to discuss with Pharaoh," she said in the tone all wives develop.
"Patience, woman, patience! Let us finish with this first. How can we deal with Alexandria?" Cha'em asked. "I understand why it was built in the first place and I admit it is good to have a port onto the Middle Sea less vulnerable and mud-plagued than old Pelusium. But Alexandria is a parasite! It takes everything from Egypt and gives Egypt nothing in return."
"I know. And didn't you train me for that when I lived here? If my throne were secure I'd be remedying that. But I have to make my throne secure. You know that Egypt cannot secede from Macedonian Alexandria, Cha'em. The damage is done. Were I as Pharaoh to leave it and govern real Egypt from Memphis, Alexandria would simply import massive armies and move to crush us. Egypt is Nilus. There is nowhere to flee beyond the river. It would be so easy, didn't Chickpea demonstrate that? The winds blow the war galleys from the Delta all the way south to the First Cataract, and the Nilus current speeds them back. True Egypt would become a slave to Macedonians, hybrids and Romans. For it's Roman armies would come."
"Which leads me, Goddess on Earth, to a most delicate topic."
The yellow-green eyes narrowed; Cleopatra frowned. "The Cubits of Death," she said.
"Twice in a row. This last one only eight feet—unheard of! The people of Nilus are murmuring."
"About the famine? Naturally."
"No, about Pharaoh."
"Explain."
Tach'a did not remove herself. A priestess-musician of the temple .and the wife of the Ue’b, she was privileged.
"Daughter of Ra, it is being said that Nilus will remain in the Cubits of Death until female Pharaoh is quickened and brings forth a male child. It is the duty of female Pharaoh to be fecund, to placate Crocodile and Hippopotamus, to prevent Crocodile and Hippopotamus from sucking the Inundation down their nostrils."
"I am as aware of that as you are, Cha'em!" said Cleopatra tartly. "Why do you bother telling me things you drummed into me when I was a girl? I worry about it night and day! But what can I do about it? My brother-husband is a boy and he prefers his full sister to me. My blood is polluted by the Mithridatidae, I have not enough Ptolemy in me."
"You must find another husband, Goddess on Earth."
"There is no one. No one! Believe me, Cha'em, I'd murder that little viper in a moment if I could! And his younger brother! And Arsinoe! We're famous for murdering each other! But the line of the Ptolemies has shrunk to the four of us, two girls, two boys. There are no other males to whom I might give my maidenhead, and I will not couple in Egypt's name with any but a God!" She ground her teeth, an unpleasant sound. "My sister Berenice tried! But the Roman Aulus Gabinius foiled her, preferred to reinstate my father. Berenice died at Father's hand. And if I'm not careful, I'll die."
A thin ray of light came through an aperture in the wall, dust motes dancing in it. Cha'em spread his long, thin brown hands out, fingers splayed, to make a shadow on the tiled floor. He put one hand over the other and made a rayed sun. Then he removed one hand and made the other into the shape of the uraeus, the sacred serpent. "The omens have been strange and insistent," he said dreamily. "Again and again they speak of a God coming out of the West... a God coming out of the West. A fit husband for Pharaoh."
Pharaoh tensed, shook. "The West?" she asked in tones of wonder. "The Realm of the Dead? You mean he is Osiris returned from the Realm of the Dead to quicken Isis?"
"And make a male child," said Tach'a. "Horus. Haroeris."
"But how can that be?" the woman, not Pharaoh, asked.
"It will come to pass," said Cha'em. He rose to his feet the long way, by first prostrating himself. "In the meantime, O Queen of Queens, we must see to the purchase of a good army."
For two months Cleopatra traveled greater Syria, enlisting mercenaries. All the kingdoms of old Syria had made a profitable industry out of producing mercenaries who were universally deemed the world's best hired troops. Idumaeans, Nabataeans. But the best mercenaries of all were Jewish. Cleopatra hied herself to Jerusalem. There at last she met the famous Antipater—and liked him. With him was his second son, Herod; of that arrogant, ugly young man she wasn't so sure. Save that the pair of them were extremely intelligent and extremely rapacious. Her gold, they inferred, could buy their services as well as soldiers.
"You see," said Antipater, intrigued by the fact that this wispy scion of a degenerate house spoke impeccable Aramaic, "I am having grave doubts about Pompeius Magnus's chances of defeating the mysterious man out of the West, Gaius Julius Caesa
r."
"Man out of the West?" asked Cleopatra idly, biting into a delicious pomegranate.
"Yes, that's what Herod and I call him. His conquests have been in the West. Now we shall see how he fares in the East."
"Gaius Julius Caesar ... I know little about him except that he sold my father Friend and Ally status and confirmed his tenure of the throne. For a price. Tell me who this Caesar is."
"Who is Caesar?" Antipater leaned aside to wash his hands in a golden basin. "In any other place than Rome he'd be a king, great Queen. His family is ancient and august. He is, they say, descended from Aphrodite and Ares through Aeneas and Romulus."
The large and beautiful eyes, leonine, looked startled; down came long lashes to veil them. "Then he is a god."
"Not to anyone Judaic like us, but yes, he might claim a degree of godhead, I suppose," said Herod lazily, browsing through a bowl of nuts with pudgy, hennaed fingers.
How conceited these peoples of the minor Syrian kingdoms are! thought Cleopatra. They act as if the world's navel were here in Jerusalem or Petra or Tyre. But it isn't. The navel of the world is in Rome. I wish it were in Memphis! Or even Alexandria.
Her army of twenty thousand men plumped out by volunteers from the Land of Onias, the Queen of Alexandria and Egypt marched down the shore road from Raphia between the great salt marsh of Lake Sirbonis and the sea, then dug herself in on the Syrian flank of Mount Casius, a sandhill just ten miles from Pelusium. Here was the proper place to decide who would sit on the Egyptian throne. She had pure water and a viable supply line into Syria, where Antipater and son Herod were buying in foodstuffs and taking a nice big commission she didn't grudge them in the least.
Achillas and the army of Egypt moved to contain her; midway through September he arrived on the Pelusiac side of Mount Casius and dug himself in. A careful soldier, Achillas wanted to wear Cleopatra down before he struck. At midsummer, when the heat was fierce and her mercenaries would think of cool homes versus the sweat of battle. That was the time to crush her.
Midsummer! The next Inundation! Cleopatra prowled her mud-brick house and itched to get the business over and done with. The world was falling apart! The man out of the West had defeated Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus at Pharsalus! But how, sitting here at Mount Casius, was she ever going to persuade him to visit Egypt? To do that she would need to occupy her throne securely and issue an invitation to pay a State visit. The Romans loved touring Egypt, demanded to see the crocodiles and at least one hippopotamus, wanted to be dazzled by gold and jewels, devastated by mighty temples. The tears coursing down her pinched face, Cleopatra reconciled herself to a third Inundation in the Cubits of Death. The omens were always right when Cha'em selected for purity. Gaius Julius Caesar, the God out of the West, would surely come. But not before midsummer.
Pompey arrived in the roads off Pelusium in the morning two days before his fifty-eighth birthday to find that old, neglected harbor choked with Egyptian war galleys and troop transports. No hope of easing inshore, even to anchor off some muddy beach. He and Sextus leaned on the ship's rail and stared at the pandemonium in fascination.
"There must be a civil war," said Sextus.
"Well, it's certainly not for my benefit," said his father with a grin. "We'd better send someone to scout for us, then we'll decide what to do."
"Sail on to Alexandria, you mean?"
"We might, but my three captains tell me we're low on food as well as water, so we'll have to stay here long enough to victual."
"I'll go," Sextus offered.
"No, I'll send Philip."
Sextus looked offended; his father punched him lightly on the shoulder.
"Serves you right, Sextus, you should have done your Greek homework years ago. I'm sending Philip because he's a Syrian Greek, he'll be able to communicate. If it isn't Attic, you're stuck."
Gnaeus Pompeius Philip, one of Pompey's own freedmen, came to receive his instructions. A big, fair man, he listened intently, nodded without questioning, and climbed over the trireme's side into its dinghy.
"There's a battle in the offing, Gnaeus Pompeius," he said when he returned two hours later. "Half of Egypt is somewhere in this vicinity. The Queen's army is camped on the far side of Mount Casius, the King's army is camped on this side. Talk in Pelusium is that they'll come to grips within days."
"How does Pelusium know when they'll fight?" asked Pompey.
"The little King has arrived here—a very rare event. He's too young to be war leader—someone called Achillas is that—but apparently the battle won't be official if he's not present."
Pompey sat down and wrote a letter to King Ptolemy asking for an audience immediately.
The rest of the day went by without an answer, which gave Pompey fresh things to consider. Two years ago that letter would have acted like a prod up the podex from a spear were it addressed to the rulers of Mount Olympus. Now a child king felt himself at liberty to answer it in his own good time.
"I wonder how long it would have taken for Caesar to get a reply?" Pompey asked Cornelia Metella, a little bitterly.
She patted his hand. "Magnus, it's not worth fretting about. These are strange people; their customs must be strange too. Besides, no one here might know about Pharsalus yet."
"That I don't believe, Cornelia. I think by now even the King of the Parthians knows about Pharsalus."
"Come to bed and sleep. The answer will arrive tomorrow."
Delivered by Philip to the merest clerk, Pompey's letter took some hours to ascend the ladder of the paper-pushing hierarchy; Egypt, so the saying went, could give lessons in bureaucracy to the Greeks of Asia. Shortly before sunset it reached the secretary to the secretary of Potheinus, the Lord High Chamberlain. He examined its seal curiously, then stiffened. A lion's head and the letters CN POMP MAG around its mane? "Serapis! Serapis!" He fled to Potheinus's secretary, who fled to Potheinus.
"Lord High Chamberlain!" the man gasped, holding out the little scroll. "A letter from Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus!"
Clad in a gauzy purple linen reclining robe because he had done with business for the day, Potheinus uncoiled from his couch in a single movement, snatched the scroll and stared at its seal incredulously. It was! It had to be!
"Send for Theodoras and Achillas," he said curtly, sat down at his desk and snapped the bright red wax. Hands trembling, he unfurled the single sheet of Fannian paper and began to try to decipher its sprawling, spidery Greek.
By the time Theodotus and Achillas came, he had finished and was sitting staring out the window, which faced west and the harbor of Pelusium, still aswarm with activity. He was looking at three trim triremes at anchor in the sea lanes.
"What is it?" asked Achillas, a hybrid Macedonian-Egyptian with the size of his Macedonian forebears and the darkness of his Egyptian ones. A lithe man in his middle thirties and a professional soldier all his life, he was well aware that he had to defeat the Queen sooner or later; if he did not, he faced exile and ruin.
"See those three ships?" asked Potheinus, pointing.
"Built in Pamphylia, from the look of the prows."
"Do you know who's on board one of them?"
"No idea at all."
"Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus."
Theodotus squawked, sat down on a chair limply.
Achillas flexed the muscles in his bare forearms, put his hands against the chest of his hard leather cuirass. "Serapis!"
"Indeed," said the Lord High Chamberlain.
"What does he want?"
"An audience with the King and safe passage to Alexandria."
"We should have the King here," said Theodotus, stumbling to his feet. "I'll get him."
Neither Potheinus nor Achillas protested; whatever was going to be done would be done in the name of the King, who was entitled to listen to his advisers in council. He wouldn't have a say, of course. But he was entitled to listen.
The thirteenth Ptolemy had stuffed himself with sweetmeats and was feeling rather sick; when he was informed
who was on board one of those three triremes, his queasiness disappeared instantly, was replaced by eager interest.
"Oh! Will I get to see him, Theodotus?"
"That remains to be seen," said his tutor. "Now sit down, listen carefully, and don't interrupt . . . great King," he added as an afterthought.
Potheinus took the chair and nodded at Achillas. "Your opinion first, Achillas. What do we do with Gnaeus Pompeius?"
"Well, his letter doesn't tell us much, just asks for an audience and safe passage to Alexandria. He's got three warships, no doubt a handful of troops too. But nothing to be worried about. It's my opinion," said Achillas, "that we should grant him his audience and send him on to Alexandria. He'll be heading for his friends in Africa, I imagine."
"But in the meantime," said Theodotus, agitated, "it will become known that he sought assistance here, was received here, saw the King here. He didn't win Pharsalus—he lost Pharsalus! Can we afford to offend his conqueror, the mighty Gaius Caesar?"
Handsome face impassive, Potheinus paid as much attention to Theodotus as he had to Achillas. "So far," he said, "Theodotus makes a better case. What do you think, great King?"
The twelve-year-old King of Egypt frowned solemnly. "I agree with you, Potheinus."
"Good, good! Theodotus, continue."
"Consider, please! Pompeius Magnus has lost the struggle to maintain his supremacy in Rome, the most powerful nation west of the Kingdom of the Parthians. The will of the late King Ptolemy Alexander, which was given to the Roman Dictator Sulla, bequeathed Egypt to Rome. We in Alexandria subverted that will, found our present king's father to put on the throne. Marcus Crassus tried to annex Egypt. We evaded that and then bribed this same Gaius Caesar to confirm Auletes in his tenure of the throne." The thin, painted, febrile face twisted up in anxiety. "But now this Gaius Caesar is, one might say with truth, the ruler of the world. How can we afford to offend him? With one snap of his fingers he can take away what he gave—an independent Egypt. Our own destiny. Keeping possession of our treasures and our way of life. We walk the edge of a razor! We cannot afford to offend Rome in the person of Gaius Caesar."
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