by Jo Graham
I crossed behind his couch on the pretext of getting something. “You are Aphrodite,” he was telling the Queen. “You are a goddess in the flesh.”
“I know,” she said, with a long secret smile.
Antonius looked at her over the rim of his cup. “You do know, don’t you? You really think that.”
“Don’t you?”
He put the cup down abruptly. “Caesar was no god.”
“And why do you say not?” Cleopatra rolled her cup between her hands, priceless cameos set into silver on the surface, looking as though this were all part of the symposium—debate Caesar’s godhead.
“He died,” Antonius said.
“And you think he has ceased to exist? Are you an atheist then?”
Antonius shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, does it? Whether or not he has a soul, he is no longer Caesar. He can no longer win battles or share your bed.”
She looked as though she were enjoying herself. “And this matters to you?”
“Do you not need a living man?”
Cleopatra’s eyes sparkled as she gestured around the hall. “Are there not plenty of men?”
“Not men who are Antonius,” he said, leaning forward. “I’m well recommended.”
The Queen laughed. “I know. Fulvia said.”
That took him aback for a moment, then he leaned forward on his elbow again, speaking like a conspirator. “Fulvia isn’t here.”
“I can see that,” Cleopatra said. “But I have come on diplomatic business, not looking for a stud bull. You will have to do more than brag of your prowess to win Aphrodite.” She reached up with one jeweled hand and caressed his cheek, her third finger brushing lightly against his lips.
“What must I do then?” he asked.
The Queen rose to her feet, giving him her wreath as though she were a girl at a harvest feast. “Pray,” she said, and with a smile swept out through the curtains.
Antonius followed her with his eyes, holding the wreath.
Yes, I thought, he is fascinated.
“More wine, Imperator?” I asked, holding a golden pitcher in my hands.
“Yes,” he said, and looked around the remains of the feast.
It was a strong vintage. I poured it out, but he did not drink, merely held the cup in his hands as he rolled onto his back, looking up at the lamps above. I wondered what he saw there.
The Successors
It was nearly dawn before the party ended. Or almost ended. Many of the guests did not look like they were leaving. Antonius and several of his officers had not so much left as just gone to sleep where they were, on couches in the banquet hall. This meant that we could not break down the banquet hall at all, but would just have to wait until day, when presumably they would go back to their quarters in the town.
As my cabin had been taken apart to make the banquet hall, and my couch was one of the ones occupied by guests, I got my cloak and prepared to curl up on deck somewhere well forward. Going out into the night air, I saw a familiar figure against the rail, his profile clear against the lights of the town beyond.
“Emrys,” I said.
He turned and put his arms around me, holding me tight against his chest, saying nothing.
I leaned my head against his shoulder, my arms under his beneath his cloak. “I’ve missed you,” I said. It wasn’t what I meant to say.
“I’ve missed you too,” he said, his face against my hair, and for a long moment we simply stood there. “Charmian . . .”
“Yes?” I closed my eyes against him, holding him tight. Beneath us, the ship moved faintly on the waves.
“I did miss you. More than I expected to.” He sounded almost embarrassed.
“Well, I suppose I missed you more than I expected too,” I said. “I didn’t imagine I should miss you. But I did. I did.”
Emrys squeezed me tighter. “I’m glad of it. Though it was harder, somehow.”
“Harder?”
He half-shrugged, his arms still around me. “Harder to go into battle, knowing that you would miss me if I died, that you would wonder what had happened to me, and that you might never know. I didn’t want that. I never wanted it. I swore I should never leave a woman waiting and wondering.”
“It’s not like that,” I said, raising my face to his, and seeing there the shadows of some tribal war in Gaul, the mourning women left with ragged children at their skirts, prey for anyone. “I belong to the Queen. I will always have a place there, me and any children of mine. I will never want or lack because of you.” I put one hand to the side of his face and said the thing we had been talking around, and avoided all of the time we were in Rome. “I do not need you, Emrys. Even if I were to be your lover. I would not need you.”
He nodded, his brows drawn. “Good.”
“I simply want you,” I said. “There’s wanting and there’s needing, Emrys. You’re like . . .” I flailed about for a metaphor. “Dessert,” I finished.
Emrys laughed. “And you love dessert!”
“A little too much,” I said ruefully. It was true that I was plumper than when he had seen me last.
Laughing, he kissed me, sweet and tender, but with a passion beneath it that made me catch my breath. Marcus Agrippa had not known what he was doing, I thought, and for that matter neither had Lucan. I supposed I should thank Dion. At that thought I could hardly keep from giggling.
We came up for air, and Emrys rested his forehead against mine.
“I should thank Dion,” I said.
Emrys smiled, and then his face grew serious. “We talked about it, Dion and I. In letters when you were in Rome, and since then. It was his suggestion, actually.”
I shook my head. “He never stops surprising me.”
“Dion said that he knew I liked women too, and of course he expected me to marry, as most of his friends do. And I told him I couldn’t marry, as he perfectly well knew. But he said it would be easier if it were someone he loved.”
I put my forehead against his shoulder. “Dion is as dear to me as a brother. I would never want to come between you.”
“That’s what he said,” Emrys said, his arms around me. “That you were a cat who comes and goes, but you should never want to own me.”
“Nor be owned,” I said. Dion understood me very, very well. “But I do care for you.” It came as a surprise to me as I said it. Perhaps I had not realized it myself until I saw him again in Tarsus, how I had come to care for him in those months in Rome, and how I had mourned when I thought him dead.
He bent his head gravely, as though in surrender. “And I you. And I love Dion.”
“So do I,” I said. “And surely love can make all possible.”
There was a smile in his eyes. “I am almost daring enough to think so.”
“I’m daring enough,” I said, and kissed him again. It was heady and sweet, and I felt the passion begin to uncoil in my belly, growing and filling me, my hand sliding up his thigh beneath his tunic, stroking him there.
Emrys moaned.
“If I had a room,” I began breathlessly.
“Don’t you?” He felt warm against me, pressed in all of the right places.
“No. I mean, I usually do. But we took out the bulkheads to make room for the banquet, and they haven’t been put back yet.”
“Ah.” Emrys sounded amused. “So where were you planning to sleep?”
“On deck,” I said. “It’s not that cold. I was just going to find a corner somewhere until morning.”
“Find a corner with me, then,” he said. “It’s warmer for two.”
We lay down together in the shadow of the rail, our overlapping cloaks covering us. It was very uncomfortable. At least until I put my head on his shoulder and propped myself around him, hooking my knee over his.
Emrys grunted. “That’s warmer.” He settled around a bit, trying to get comfortable, my body pressed against his side.
I smiled against him. “I’m going to abduct you,” I said. “I’m going to t
ie you up below, and when we sail for Alexandria you won’t have any choice but to come with us.”
“Somehow I don’t think Antonius will approve of that,” he said, but I could hear the note of excitement in his voice.
“We can tie him up and take him too.”
“I know he won’t approve of that,” Emrys said. He licked his lip. “I’m afraid it would be my duty to escape.”
I caressed his wrist with one finger, leaning closer. “Even if I tied you up very nicely?”
He took a deep breath. “Now that begins to get more difficult.”
“If I had a room . . .”
“If you did, you could certainly try it.” He touched my face gently, turning it up to him. “You have beautiful eyes. I suppose you get tired of men saying that.”
“Actually, no one has said it but you,” I said. “I think men are a little afraid of me. The ones who understand me at all.”
“Just because you’re beautiful, brilliant, and have incredible amounts of power?” Emrys laughed. “Nothing there to be afraid of.” He put his arms around me again. “I’m used to the idea of ruling queens. Gwendolyn of Corneu, for example. She lived in my grandfather’s day.” Emrys shrugged. “Of course you serve your Queen, your ruler, and your kinswoman, as best you can with all honor. To do anything less would be wrong. I would never try to persuade you from your duty, any more than you would try to persuade me.”
I put my head against his shoulder, half dreaming from the late hour and from the warmth. We lay in silence until I thought he was almost sleeping, beneath the stars above. Sothis burned brightly on his way up the sky.
WE WOKE IN THE HOUR before dawn, more than a little cramped and stiff. Together, we watched the sky pale. The great galley swung gently on the tide. Somewhere in the town a cock crowed.
I shifted against Emrys’ shoulder.
“What does your Queen want?” Emrys asked quietly.
“An alliance,” I said. “A market for our grain, an ally against any other power in the East, and the guarantee that Rome will not simply take what we have.”
For a long moment he was silent. “Rome is good at taking what she wants,” he said. “Why pay for something, or bargain for it, if you can simply have it? Rome cannot feed herself.” He glanced down at me on his shoulder, the stubble on his chin rubbing against my forehead. “Her fields are plowed by slaves from Gaul or over the Rhenus. In order for there to be a constant supply of new slaves there must be constant expansion of the borders. And the more she grows, the more she must grow in order to keep feeding herself. Here sits Egypt, with more food than anywhere else in the world, with no army to keep off Rome. What is to stop Rome simply taking?”
“Cleopatra,” I said.
“Other people have thought that,” he said. “Vercingetorix was not the only one.”
“Rome cannot be resisted by arms,” I said. “We know that. There is not enough money in the world to build the army that could face Rome in the field. The only thing we can do is make an alliance, as we did with Caesar. And as long as Roman fights Roman, someone will need Egypt.”
His eyebrows rose. “Antonius and Octavian are in accord.”
“At the moment,” I said. “But why should not this situation fall out as it did with the Successors of Alexander? Caesar held together this cobbled and piecemeal thing that is Rome, a collection of territories with nothing in common and little desire to work together. Now Caesar is gone. As happened then, lesser men scramble for the remains. Why should not Octavian and Antonius come to the same pass as Antigonus, Seleucus, and Ptolemy? The entirety is too great to be held together by any man except an Alexander or a Caesar. Were it divided, there would be states of reasonable size, and while there might be war between them, it would reach stability when none would have a marked advantage. In the shadow of each brokered peace there could be centuries of civilization.”
“And what is your Queen here to offer Antonius?”
“The chance to be Ptolemy,” I said.
He was silent for a long moment. “Antonius is not Ptolemy,” he said carefully. “And Octavian will not throw his chances away on a desperate gamble, or settle for less than all.”
“I know Antonius is not Ptolemy,” I said. “But he is the man there is.”
THE SECOND NIGHT’S BANQUET was even more fantastic than the first. We used the hangings of saffron silk, looped back with ropes of seashells. The couches were strewn with rose petals, while the best roses whole and intact were woven into garlands and used on the tables. The scent of roses was exquisite. In the warmth of the afternoon, before the guests arrived, the scent diffused throughout the room and it smelled less like a banquet than a temple. Petals floated in the golden bowls of water presented to the guests as they came aboard that they might wash their hands. The dancers wore feathers and nothing else, moving and swaying like dancing birds, or some strange sea creature living among the pearls at the sea bottom in shallow water.
The Queen was in blue, tending toward purple, which would stand out best amid the gold. She wore the uraeus, and a collar of gold and lapis. The cartouche on the weight at the back said that it had once belonged to the mother of Pharaoh Seti. We both hated to take such treasures from Egypt and trust them to the vagaries of the sea, but there was nothing else like them, nothing else that would do for Isis Pelagia.
Antonius was speechless.
WE SAILED FOR ALEXANDRIA on the third day, with Antonius aboard. I do not know how Emrys managed to wrangle a place as one of the few officers sent. The majority of Antonius’ men would stay in Tarsus, while some few, including the cavalry, would begin the long march of many months to Egypt. Only twenty or so went by ship. But one of them was Emrys.
We sailed at noon, and watched the sun set over the sea while the Queen and Antonius dined in the open air on the aft deck. He looked at nothing but her, a man entranced.
Emrys stood beside me at the rail. “Do you have your room back yet?” he asked. He glanced sideways at me, and I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
I laughed. “Yes, and should I tie you up and keep you there?”
“You might,” he said, and I glanced sideways to see the real desire in his face.
I leaned against him. “Emrys, I promise you will be a luckier man by far than Antonius this evening!”
“What is she waiting for?”
“Egypt,” I said. “It must be on Egyptian soil, this marriage of Isis and Dionysos.”
Emrys leaned on his elbows, thinking. “The marriage of Isis and Dionysos. Does Dion say this?”
I nodded. “Yes. Dion says a lot of things.” I paused, thinking how much I could tell him, and how much he would think strange or dangerous. “Did you ever wonder how when Caesar died I was ready?”
He looked out to sea, his face still. “I assumed you saw it. Dion said a long time ago that you could have been a seer, an oracle. And that perhaps you were once, in some other time.” He glanced at me over his shoulder. “We have the Sight among the Keltoi too, you know. I’m not afraid of it. But I don’t want you to see for me.”
“I can’t do it on purpose,” I said, relaxing and leaning against the rail beside him, our shoulders almost touching. “Maybe I could have if I’d been given to one of the temples with an oracular tradition. But I went to Bastet at Bubastis, which isn’t one of those. I learned how to run the Queen’s household instead. And how to manage the needs of the kingdom.”
“Which is important,” he said. The sun was setting into the waves, orange and gold, the clouds feathered pink against the sky. “But sometimes you see things anyway?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “It’s not like seeing. It’s just knowing, usually. Just knowing that something is. I can cast lots and know how the dice will fall. I can ask something simple, like show me an odd number if the answer is no, and an even number if the answer is yes. Something easy like that. It works fairly often.”
He nodded. “I’ve seen men do that. It doesn’t work for me, thou
gh.” Emrys smiled sheepishly. “Because the dice usually roll what I want them to. So all I get is the answer I wanted.”
“You can roll what you want?”
He nodded. “I’ll show you when we’re not on a moving deck. I can call a throw and get it about half the time, more when it’s late and I’m tired.”
“That sounds very useful,” I said.
“Not as useful as knowing that Caesar’s been killed before anyone tells you,” he said.
“Maybe so,” I said. I had never thought of it that way before. I did not serve the Lady of Amenti, not in this life. I had pledged my service to Cleopatra when we were children together, sealed it with the sacrifice of my own blood. I belonged to Egypt, to Alexandria, to the things Ptolemy and his men had wrought, to their white city by the sea.
“Emrys,” I said slowly, “I think I was there. When Alexander died.”
I waited, not daring to look at him. He didn’t laugh.
“When Caesar was killed and we were doing things, I knew. . . . Emrys, I don’t have words for this, but that we’d done this before. You and I. In Babylon. You were Persian, one of the lords who came with Oxathres. I can see you so clearly in my mind’s eye. Him. You.”
“I don’t know,” he said gravely. “It could be. There are stranger things in the world. But the gift of memory has never been mine. Sometimes I go somewhere and the place feels familiar, or I meet someone and I feel like I already know them, but I don’t remember anything specific.” He gave me a sideways glance. “Perhaps I was bathed in the River of Lethe, and it all washed away. Or maybe it’s somewhere in the back of my mind, and comes only in dreams. I don’t remember anything.”
I nodded. At least he wasn’t laughing or telling me to be rational.
“You remember things?” he asked.
I nodded again. “A little. Not enough.”
“If I were you,” he said, “I’d look it up.”