by Jo Graham
Cleopatra began rolling the scroll neatly and tightly. “She knows Theo has no spine and he’ll do anything she wants. I won’t. And Arsinoe will play whatever game she’s told.”
I shrugged. “You’re stuck with Theo no matter what. He’s only nine, so at least you won’t have to marry him for a while.”
“Not for five or six years,” Cleopatra said. “A lot can happen in five or six years.” She tied the cord around the scroll and put the label on, then looked up as if eager to change the subject. “So where are you going tonight?” she asked me.
I shook my head. “I’m ending with Lucan,” I said. “I belong here.”
HE TOOK IT WELL, I thought. I explained to him that my sister was very sick, and that I had no idea when I would be able to see him again, that he was wonderful and would make someone very happy, but I could hardly hold him when I knew that my duty led me to be apart from him. I thought it was flattering, and as kind as one can be.
After all, what discontent was there to voice? Lucan was considerate and his company was enjoyable. He was handsome enough and more than smart enough. How could I say that I did not love him as he wished to be loved?
If I were a man, I thought, I should love as men do, able to go from one house to another freely, pursuing youths and maidens alike as the whim took me. If I were Ptolemy Auletes, and could have anyone I wished, I would enjoy beauty in all its forms, fair and dark, curved and hard, spiced or pleasing. I should sample all of the delights of the world.
And there were so many. It almost staggered me sometimes, how many forms of beauty there were. I saw it in the broad shoulders of a guardsman, in the handsome dark face of a young doctor from Elephantine, in the lissome movement of a eunuch dancer, in the knowing gravity of Masters of the Sciences from the Museum old enough to be my grandsires. Each, in their turn, looked aside at me, and I felt their eyes following me.
It was not that I was beautiful. When I looked in the mirror I could not see that it was so. My face was symmetrical, only marred by the Ptolemy nose, and my eyes were blue. But so were the eyes of others. There were plenty of young women as fair, with rounded breasts and sweet curves. It was, I thought, something more.
It is an old maxim that Aphrodite gives beauty to women who love Her. Like most young girls, I had thought that meant that those who give offerings will have their skin clear up. Now I understood better. Those who love Her gifts are always beautiful, no matter what they look like.
There were women too who caught my eye. I saw it in the quiet girls with a way of moving that suggested depths of sensuality they had not yet plumbed, or the way some women tossed their heads, beads on the ends of their braids clicking against the smooth honey skin of their necks.
I understood my father better then. With all of the beauty put before him, how could one not sample a little of each? And he, I thought, would understand me.
But I was neither a man nor Pharaoh, so I threw myself into my work. I had the feeling that the time to learn was running out.
Ptolemy Auletes must have felt the same way. He made his will, and keeping one copy in our archives, sent the other off to Rome, to his great ally. “My kingdom I leave in joint trust to my eldest son and daughter alike, the Twin Gods Cleopatra Philopater and Ptolemy Theodorus. It is my wish that they should marry when both have come of age, and from their union should continue the heirs of my kingdom. I therefore establish the executor of my will to be none other than the Republic of Rome, thus to defend the realm of Egypt for my heirs in their minority.”
Rome, of course, meant Pompeius, the First Man of Rome. It would be in his interest to balance the Queen, should Auletes die soon. The Queen would not wish to give over the regency to Pompeius Magnus.
Or perhaps what Auletes planned had less to do with some future hypothetical regency, and more to do with defaulting on the fifth payment of the loan. He had paid the fourth, but when the fifth came due there were other things more pressing, including the repair of the breakwater around Pharos. Instead of the money, he concluded a treaty with Rome, promising that forthwith Egypt and Rome should be the sturdiest allies. Egypt should contribute to Roman expeditions in the east, and Rome should defend Egypt against all enemies.
THE INUNDATION CAME. It was a good year, but the flood was high. Many banks and sluices were overrun, and when the water came down they had to be repaired. Day by day, Auletes looked thinner and grayer. He no longer visited the harem, and he complained constantly of a pain in his side. The physicians examined him and looked grim, prescribing rest and care.
The waters receded, and Iras turned eighteen. Dion’s most recent friend went to study in Athens, and he was alone again. He moved out of his parents’ house, though, to rooms nearer the Museum, supposedly because his astronomy required he keep late hours, but actually because he was tired of assignations in odd places.
There were bills for naval stores, and to repair the walls of Pelousion where Gabinius had breached them for Ptolemy so long ago. We defaulted on the sixth payment of the loan.
This time Pompeius did not send his banker to collect the money. This time he sent his son.
AT THIS TIME Gnaeus Pompeius was twenty-four, and though he was well built, he was not handsome. He was the oldest son of Pompeius Magnus, however, and might in due course of time become, like his father, the First Man of Rome. He did not remind me of a wolf, but of a jackal, decidedly untrustworthy.
The son of a devoted friend could not have greeted Auletes more smoothly, or with greater graciousness. He did not drink excessively in public, and when he was invited to use the palace baths, he displayed a body that was honed to perfection by military life.
“Watch him for me,” Cleopatra said. “There are half a dozen attendants in the bath at any time. No one will notice you in particular if you dress like the others, and stand about holding towels. I want to know what you think of him. Candidly.”
So I went to the baths and stood about the pool, moving jars of oil from one place to another and watching while Gnaeus Pompeius splashed about in the pool and lay on a cushioned couch for a slave to massage him. When he turned over so that she could work on his front, his phallus was already erect, glossy and surrounded by dark curls. I averted my eyes, so that I should not seem curious, glancing beneath my lids.
She worked on his legs. It was Philene, one of the best girls, and the most professional. She displayed no embarrassment as she worked. He was so swift I hardly saw it as he grabbed her wrist, his other hand slipping between her legs and grabbing her by the pubic hair. Philene squeaked, more with surprise than alarm.
“There’s a use for all this oil,” he said, sliding her oiled hands onto his manhood; she was caught on one knee, unable to back up, held by the hair.
Her mouth opened as he sat up, drawing her down hard onto him in full view of every bath slave. The two boys who sluiced bathers off gaped. He thrust hard while Philene tried to find the rhythm, to keep her composure, biting down on her lip. With each thrust he withdrew almost completely, driving hard. There was no sound in the baths except the slap of his skin on hers. It only took him a few minutes. He came with a groan, drawing out of her, his hands leaving red marks on her hips. Her distended nether lips seemed to clutch at him, moist and full and purpling.
I felt it deep in my stomach, my answering arousal, and with it the horror. I had never been taken like that, as though I were nothing, before half the household, and I imagined I should like it no better than Philene did.
Gnaeus Pompeius took a towel from the stack and cleaned himself off, while Philene stood mute, clutching the edge of the couch.
Tossing the towel on the couch, he strode off toward the dressing room.
I found my voice. “Myrtle,” I said to the steadiest of the attendants, “tend to Philene, please. You are both dismissed from your duties today.” I did not trust myself to touch her.
I TOLD CLEOPATRA everything, everything except my arousal. That was nothing she needed to know.
> She looked away, out the window that faced the sea. “Oh sweet Isis,” she said.
“I know,” I said. “He had no business. Philene’s not in the harem. And she hadn’t done anything to encourage him.”
Cleopatra nodded. She seemed abstracted. “He can’t send for her. Tell her that, and the Master of the Baths too. That’s not her job. And tell her she can slip out if he comes into the baths.” She walked over to the window, and I could not see her face. “Sweet Isis.”
“It’s a message,” Iras said. “Everything that’s here is his. It’s about politics, not Philene.”
“I know,” Cleopatra said. “But there’s no other way to sweeten the deal enough this time.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“No,” Iras said at the same moment. “No. Absolutely no.” She stood up, her hands clenched. “Auletes can’t mean to do that. That old pimp!”
“We don’t have any other choice.” Cleopatra turned around, her chin high. “The only thing that will sweeten the deal enough to keep him from his father’s mission is me.”
“You can’t do it,” Iras said, grasping at straws. “You’re supposed to marry Theo.”
“Theo is eleven years old,” Cleopatra snapped. “He’s no help. He’s nothing at all. The only other thing Auletes could do is throw Arsinoe at him, but she’s three years younger than I am, and she’s not the heir.”
“Gnaeus could marry Arsinoe,” I said. “And take her away from here where she can’t be the focus for her mother’s faction anymore.”
“Except that he already has a wife,” Cleopatra said. “A woman named Appia. I don’t like it. But I don’t see any other way.”
“I won’t permit it,” Iras said, her face flushed.
Cleopatra walked toward her, and put her hand to Iras’ shoulder. “Dear Iras,” she said, “you are not my brother.”
“I wish I were,” she said. “I would never let you do this while you have breath in your body.”
“There isn’t any other way!” Cleopatra dropped her hand and spun about. “Don’t you see that? I just have to make the best of it. If he calls in the whole debt, we have no way to pay. The economy will collapse. It’s worse than it was in my great-uncle’s day, when he melted down Alexander’s golden sarcophagus and replaced it with a glass one. If I don’t do this, we’re going to have to start robbing the dead. It’s either that, or rob the living.”
Iras and I looked at each other. I opened my mouth and then shut it.
“I need you to stand behind me,” Cleopatra said, her back to us. Her voice sounded odd. “If you can’t do that, I need you to leave.”
“I’m with you,” I said. “You know that I am.”
Iras nodded. “I’ll do what you need me to do,” she said.
I took a step toward her. “You know we would never leave you.”
She nodded. One piece of hair had fallen from her pins. “It can’t be worse than a bitter draft, can it?”
“And maybe sweet can come after,” I said. “After this, you could pick your lovers as you wished.”
“I doubt I can ever do that,” she said.
FOUR NIGHTS LATER, Pharaoh entertained privately in one of his small dining rooms, three couches, one for Cleopatra, one for him, and one for Gnaeus Pompeius. When the evening was over, she came back to her bedroom.
“Brush out my hair, Iras,” she said. “And bring me a silk robe. The pale pink one.”
Iras went to find it, and I knelt beside her, pressing her hand to my lips.
“Does it hurt?” she whispered.
“Not so badly,” I said. “It’s better if you’re wet first.”
She nodded.
“I liked it,” I said. “After a while. But Lucan was gentle.”
She nodded again, looking over the cosmetics arrayed on her table. “Take that oil there,” she said, “and put it where it needs to be. Quickly, before Iras gets back. It will upset her.”
I took the glass bottle and poured some out, still kneeling. She lifted her chiton and spread her legs while I warmed the oil in my hands, attar of roses, the oil we had used to anoint the goddess’ image back in Bubastis. “Like a goddess,” I whispered.
She gave me a tiny smile.
I worked the oil into her nether lips, sliding one slick finger just inside, making sure it was where it needed to be. She did not resist my fingers at all. I felt the soft skin there flush in my hands.
“It will be better if you can touch yourself some,” I said. “When he’s with you.” I didn’t look at her face.
We had never talked of such things directly, Iras, Cleopatra, and I. But we had shared a room long enough to know the sounds in the night that come when one thinks one’s sisters are asleep.
She nodded, straightening her chiton as I sat back on my heels. I slid the stopper into the bottle.
Iras came in, holding the robe. “It’s one of your best,” she said.
“I know.”
There was a knock at the door. I went to it, and called to the guardsman outside. “Who is it?”
“Gnaeus Pompeius seeks entry, Lady.”
Cleopatra stood up, the robe falling in graceful folds around her. “Please let him in. Then you may go.”
Debts
In the morning, I waited until I heard movement in her chamber before I went in. Cleopatra was awake and standing beside the window, draping her pink robe about her. She put her finger to her lips.
Gnaeus Pompeius was sprawled across her bed, sleeping. He was completely naked, except for one of the bedsheets tangled around his feet. It had a bloody stain, no more than a few drops.
She tiptoed across the room to me, and did not speak until we were outside and the door was closed behind us. “Leave him be. Let’s go to the palace baths. There won’t likely be anyone there this early.”
I wondered why, when she had her own bath right here that she usually preferred, but then if Gnaeus woke up he might decide to bathe too.
We went to the palace baths, which were indeed empty except for one old slave who was putting clean cloths out. She got in the warm bath, and I settled to washing her hair. Cleopatra leaned her head back onto the rolled cloths at the edge of the pool. As my fingers worked the lotions through her hair, I saw her face begin to relax, the tight lines around her mouth fading away.
I did not ask how it had gone.
After a while she sighed. “It was not as bad as it could have been,” she said. “I suppose it could have been much worse. Now comes the hard part.”
I raised my eyebrows. “The hard part?”
“I have to keep him interested until he forgets about the money. For as long as it takes, I must play the lover.”
“How long?” I asked.
“Until we can pay Pompeius his debt, or until something happens.” Cleopatra closed her eyes. “Sooner or later, something will.”
AND SO we bought a little time. Gnaeus Pompeius made himself comfortable as the honored guest of Pharaoh Ptolemy Auletes, dicing, hunting lions in the desert rather fruitlessly, attending one banquet after another, and of course dallying with Cleopatra, who kept an eternally bland smile on her face. He had no interest in the running of the realm, in the business and internal politics that continually demanded the attention of the ruler. As far as he was concerned, Egypt governed itself as nothing more than a big moneymaking arrangement. Pompeius Magnus might be the First Man of Rome, and famed for his political prowess, but his eldest son seemed to understand little of governance besides force. He spoke no more than a few words of Koine, seeing it of little importance to understand what people might say around him. It was a good thing that Cleopatra, Iras, and I had studied Latin. He expected everyone to speak it to him.
Meanwhile, by day, Cleopatra immersed herself in the running of the realm. No detail was too small or complicated to study, that she might see how it was done, or how the men who attended to it served her. How should she know if it were done wrong, at some future time, if she di
d not know how it was supposed to be? So she spent her days learning about canal dredging, talking with scientists and priests, with the Patriarch of the chief synagogue of Alexandria, with the Treasurer, and with the Horologers who measured time and set the calendar, predicting when the Inundation would come.
When the next payment came due, Gnaeus Pompeius wrote to his father.
Though it is clear that Ptolemy Auletes intends to repay his debt in good faith, it has been a difficult year in Egypt. The harvest was poor, and the revenues have been much less than expected. Consequently, it is impossible for him to send the payment at this time without imposing great hardship on his people. As a wise farmer tends his fields so that they may yield more in the long run, we must wisely allow him to husband his people, so that in due course of time our investment may pay greater dividends.
Gnaeus Pompeius sent the letter, but no one doubted that the words were Cleopatra’s. Certainly Pompeius Magnus did not doubt it. The next month a letter came from him to his son, stating it plainly.
I know that you greatly enjoy the hospitality of Ptolemy Auletes; however, I hope that you will remember your duty to me. If it is difficult to collect the debt, then you must lend your energy to its collection, and not accept any idle excuses you are given.
Gnaeus Pompeius took the letter straight to Auletes. Auletes put his hand on Gnaeus’ arm, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “So might a father speak, to such a son as you! Alas, if I had so worthy a son, my burdens would be lighter! But I am only an old man, whose health is failing, and the prop of my throne is Cleopatra. True, she is nineteen, and her beauty and wit are unsurpassed, but she is only a woman! You must not blame us if all is not done as you would wish. Your mercy on my failing age, and her feminine foibles, dear Gnaeus! Would that I had a man such as you to follow after me, as her consort and husband!”