Kleopatra

by Karen Essex

  Antony let the king ponder the complex situation while he explained that in better times he had received the hospitality of Archelaus in his native country. “I was his friend, though here, Fate called upon me to fight against him. Let us remember the lessons of the poets. The gods do not reward those who deny proper burial to the fallen.”

  Antony’s manner was friendly yet deferential, but Kleopatra had difficulty concentrating on what he said. His cloak draped negligently around him, and each time he wished to make a point, he cast it behind his shoulder, shrugging off its weight. His arm in motion was beautiful, strength radiating in each small gesture. He is the living god, she thought.

  Auletes weighed the argument, twirling the hairs of his left eyebrow unconsciously as he did when he was thinking. “I suppose it would be no great concession to agree to your request,” he said, to the great surprise of the princess. Could this man have her father spellbound, too?

  “Particularly since you have performed such services for us and without even knowing us, or asking for a reward.”

  “Only a dignified repose for the body of a friend,” Antony corrected.

  “I hear, my boy, that you shamed your men into crossing not only the desert, but the Serbonian marsh, where no drinking water to be had. My people call that land the breathing hole of Typhon. I am not certain I would have crossed it myself, even to recover my own kingdom!” The king winked at Antony as if the two of them were longtime friends.

  “What is thirst compared to justice? I was able to convince them of the rightness of the cause. It was not so much a challenge,” Antony replied. “The soldier finds his purpose in the willingness of the commander to endure suffering.”

  “You please me, my dear boy. Your argument is sound, your speech is persuasive, your Greek excellent, and your cause a compassionate one. Yes, you please me. I would that you were my son.”

  “I am flattered, Your Highness,” Antony said. “But if I were your son, you would no longer like me so. I have caused displeasure to more than one father. But if you will permit, there is another favor I would ask of you.”

  “And what is that, my young warrior? Name it. My kingdom is yours.”

  “The prisoners, Majesty. The rebels held in the jail. I understand they are to be executed tomorrow.”

  “Correct. Who does not do away with his enemies has no tomorrow. You are a man of the world. Surely you know that,” huffed the king.

  “I have interrogated the prisoners myself, Your Majesty,” he said, smiling, his highly arched nostrils spreading to meet the rise in his cheekbones. He was polite, solicitous even, but always appeared to know that he was going to win the argument. “Many are the victims of confusion that ensued in the wake of your exile and the death of the late queen. They’re rather simple opportunists, fallen prey to the flowery words of the persuasive eunuch Meleager. More to be pitied than harmed, I think. I believe you will gain more by demonstrating clemency. Besides, your daughter executed the late queen’s supporters, saving you the trouble. The last of them, the General, died in battle with Archelaus. I have here the list of the proscribed and the dead.” He handed Auletes a long scroll of names, those fallen to Berenike’s sword of vengeance.

  “I follow the example of my spiritual father, the great Julius Caesar,” he continued as Auletes read the list. “He always says, ‘Antony, the fearful govern by the sword, the great by mercy.’ Your Majesty has no more cause for fear.” He looked not at the king, but at his daughter, who this time boldly looked back, trying to force down the red that crept up her neck and into her cheeks.

  Auletes paused, wrinkling his forehead. Kleopatra did not know if her father found this young Roman’s words threatening or persuasive. After a few moments, Auletes nodded his head agreeably. “I shall rest in your word. It shall be as you wish, young man.”

  “May the gods bless you, Sire,” Antony said. “And now, I am off. I thank you for the honor of speaking before you.”

  “No, no,” said the king. “You must not leave us. You are one of us now. I will show you the very soul of Egypt. The tales you told those greedy soldiers about the pleasures of our country are not mere fantasies for those who are my guests.” He winked at Antony.

  “It would give me nothing but pleasure to remain in your service, but I have been summoned by Julius Caesar, who requires my immediate appearance in Gaul. He has appointed me commander of the cavalry.”

  Kleopatra’s hand involuntarily covered her mouth, her hopes squelched. She hoped he either did not see the gesture, or if he did, she hoped the proper interpretation eluded him—a fact she doubted. His flitting eyes seemed to touch every surface of her body and mind. She did not wish him to leave. Why didn’t her father say something to make him stay, this powerful Roman they now had in their audience? This man with the wicked eyes, the sharp wit, the vast chest. This Titan who threw about the names of his elders—names that made ordinary men quake—as if they were his friends. Julius Caesar. Pompey. They were his friends. Father, she wanted to shout, please do not let him go, for here, finally, is the Roman who will help us.

  “I am in despair that we did not have the opportunity to converse, Princess Kleopatra,” he said. “We shall meet again, I am certain.”

  He must have seen the disappointment on her face when he had announced his departure. Undoubtedly, he could take for granted the fact that women wanted to know him, to have him turn his easy charm in their directions. For all her practice at cloaking her feelings, this man saw right through her, and now—she was sure—was taunting her for her silly, girlish crush.

  She wanted to say something entirely haughty to make him believe that she had not given him a thought. Instead, all she managed was to murmur that she did indeed, hope they would meet again. Then she committed the unpardonable gaff of blushing.

  What was the use in trying to mask her feelings? She had already spun elaborate fantasies about this young Herakles: She would sit at his side during long dinners, watching the candlelight flicker on his bronze face, offering him every delectable variety of food—marinated quail, roasted boar and fishes, figs, wines from their vineyards, beers from their breweries—and even, if her father was not looking, slip, with her slim fingers, a date into his mouth. She would conduct tours of their city designed to impress him with their wealth and sophistication, taking him to the Library, to the Mouseion, to the zoo to see the great black panther her father had just imported from Armenia. She would engage with him in his own Latin, demonstrating her command of Roman literature, including the more erotic rants of Catullus. In her mind she had already envisioned the devilment in his eyes as she read to him the sensual escapades of his debauched countryman. She would tolerate the journeys he would make with the king to the palace prostitutes and to the brothels in the Fayum where Antony would experience the pleasures of the flesh in which she, a princess, might not indulge. She would summon him to the courtyard to see the ponds with lotus blossoms like welcoming hands, the aviaries of crimson canaries, chattering parrots, and fluttering creatures with gossamer wings and a barely audible song. She would tell him how, from her bedroom, she could watch the waves lick the beaches of the Royal Harbor, and hope he imagined himself there with her. When he drank too much with the king, she would admonish him with a smile and give him a powder for his hangover. Despite her young years and her childish body, she would charm him, and in the end, she would make him love her.

  But these would have to remain girlish fantasies. With a low bow and an unsettling smile in her direction, he was gone.

  SEVENTEEN

  Caesar sat on the rubble of the fallen siege wall sunning himself. The autumn air in Gaul came earlier than in Italy and could be so pleasant. His legions labored below, busily cleaning up the residue of a battle fought and won, packing the remaining bags of grain into giant sacks, counting the horses, repairing the leather ties that held together their armor, loading the battering gear into the baggage carts. How could he be a happier man? Whether Fate or hi
mself governed events, Caesar did not know. He suspected that Fate recognized his talents and his efforts and decided to play in his favor.

  He had waited for this moment for many years, the moment when he could breathe easily, assured that he had once and for all subdued this rebellious nation of feral tribes. It had been five long years in the making, but he had earlier that day received word from Vercingetorix’s men that their leader wished to know the terms of surrender. Caesar quickly sent back his orders. Lay down your arms and come to me.

  Now the giant of a man walked toward him, young, so young still. How old could he be? Thirty? An Alexander, but with the height the Greek general had lacked. Unarmed, surrounded by his men, most of whom were crying. But not Vercingetorix. He had polished his silver-and-bronze armor and wore it proudly. How nice it would look on display in Caesar’s home in Rome.

  The blond man quickened his pace as he made his way directly to Caesar. His men dropped back, linking arms to hold one another up as their leader prostrated himself at Caesar’s feet. Then he looked his conqueror straight in the eye. “I told my men to kill me or to surrender me to you. I am not dead, therefore I am begging your mercy. Not for myself. But for them.”

  Thank you, Mother Venus, Caesar said silently to his ancestress. For here in the suppliant position was his nemesis, the man whose insolent rebellion had caused him to slaughter hundreds of thousands of Gauls. His Hannibal. A Titan of a man a full head taller than the tall Caesar, his muscle triple the size of Caesar’s lean physique. A man whom, under other circumstances, he might be curious enough to see what gifts were hidden under his battle gear.

  “Vercingetorix, get up. You are no earnest suppliant,” said Caesar. “You ask for mercy, but what mercy have you shown me?”

  Caesar pulled himself up taller to his full six feet, preparing to speak from deep within his gut, so that he would be heard by the mile-long, pristine rows of soldiers that stretched in front of him.

  “You used our friendship to seduce me into a false sense of security. As soon as I left your country, you rode from one end of this land to the other urging your countrymen to betray me. When they would not join your cause, you encouraged them by—what methods? You cut off their ears, tortured them, poked out their eyes, branded them with a burning sword, until they agreed to join your madness.

  “You are indeed a savage. But you are a fortunate savage. I shall give to you more mercy than you demonstrated to your own people.”

  “My life is yours to do with as you wish,” replied the man. He displayed no emotion, not even irony.

  “Put him in chains,” Caesar said indifferently to his men. He called to Labienus, his second in command, and ordered him to seek out among the prisoners the members of the tribes of the Avernii and the Aedui.

  Caesar watched as his officers pulled the longhaired savages out of the ranks of the imprisoned, some cowering as if they believed themselves singled out for additional punishment. Now they would see the mercy of Caesar in action. Caesar balanced himself atop the fallen wall, making a strong triangle with his legs. He raised his arms to speak and smiled at the speed at which the hush fell over his audience, Roman and Gallic men alike.

  “Listen to me, you men of Avernii and Aedui—you allies of Rome intimidated into joining the rebellion by this animal’s hideous tactics. In your hands I place the keys to peace and harmony with Rome. I say to each one of you—go home. Go to your wives, your children, your elders, and tell them of the mercy of Caesar. Tell them that today, Caesar could have killed each treasonous prisoner who made Roman soldiers suffer and die. Instead, he released you to return to your loved ones. Go now in peace.”

  Caesar took in the satisfying hum of the prisoners as the news of his unexpected clemency traveled to the back of the lines. He allowed himself to be helped off the rock by one of his men, squaring off to face the still-impenetrable face of Vercingetorix. Well, he would show him, wouldn’t he? “Now, each of my men, officers first, will select a personal slave from your ranks. Vercingetorix, you will turn your head and watch the process.”

  Caesar knew this tedious selection of slaves would be a long and dreary procedure, one during which he himself would get bored, but tired as he was, he wanted a definitive end to this conflict. He had spent the winter, the spring, and the summer listening to the sound of dying. Perhaps the weather god was the cruelest dictator of all.

  In the winter, Vercingetorix had set fire to every farm or town or village that he could not defend, trying to starve out Caesar’s army by burning all the local crops and killing the animals. In retaliation, Caesar built a massive siege wall around Avaricum, the one city the Gauls pleaded with Vercingetorix to save. Caesar’s men were exhausted, having traveled through mountain passes, clearing six and eight feet of snow as they walked. They were out of grain and living off animals stolen and slaughtered as they marched through the relentless white mountains of a Gallic winter. Both Caesar and his men were past their patience. They had subdued this nation once, and now the rebel Vercingetorix was forcing them to do the job again.

  So what choice did he have when his soldiers—rabid, angry, hungry, and made even more bestial on their unbroken diet of wild meats—entered the town of Avaricum and began the slaughter? Never had he, a man of war, witnessed such mayhem and bloodshed, such ritualistic and thorough extermination of a town. Half dead already with winter’s ravages, his men finished nature’s job on the townspeople, tearing out the guts of men, women, children alike with their cold metal weapons. They stopped neither to save the town’s assets for their own, nor to quench their sexual thirsts. Their needs were beyond money and lust. After the massacre, the body count took two days. Thirty-nine thousand, two hundred twenty-seven, if he remembered correctly.

  That is what this creature before him had driven the soldiers to do, this thing now asking for mercy, this Vercingetorix, with his army of two hundred thousand vandals and hoodlums.

  Caesar thought that the Avaricum massacre would send the message, but it had the reverse effect. The Gauls became even more determined. Desperate for victory, they started their burning campaign anew. In the spring, Caesar marched his men through fields of ash where farms, meadows, mills, and markets once stood. By the onset of summer, their clothes and weapons were burnished black with the ashen remnants of Gallic civilization. Vercingetorix, unmoved, had retreated to the city of Alesia, atop the summit of a hill, impregnable—or so he thought. Had he not already borne witness to the fruits of Caesar, the master builder? Was his hope so great that it deterred his judgment?

  Caesar’s men cheerfully accepted the challenge of constructing the fortifications. And he was so proud of the product—a circular siege wall, ten miles long, fourteen miles in width, to the best of his approximation. Three tiered circles around it so that there was no way in and no way out. It was his magnum opus.

  He confiscated all the food that the Gauls tried to sneak into the city. He estimated that he could starve the town into either death or surrender in thirty days or less.

  After two weeks, Vercingetorix opened the gates long enough to push out all those who were unfit for battle—the women, the children, the old men. In tattered rags, bones jutting like thorns, they came to Caesar for quarter. But how could he take on the responsibilities of his enemy? He felt certain that Vercingetorix was trying to take advantage of his reputation for mercy. He told them to go back to their men and demand that they take care of their own.

  “We cannot go back,” said one bold woman, whom Caesar could tell had been quite beautiful before her starving body began to feast upon itself. “The warriors have said they will dine upon our babies if it means keeping themselves alive to fight you.”

  Caesar took this into consideration, but refused them nonetheless. And so they camped under the fortifications, the old and the young, and the women who cared for them, sheltering themselves from summer’s burning sun, and tortured his men with the sound of their babies crying themselves to hungry deaths. The low moans
and curses of the old men, the whimpering cries of the mothers and the girls, the vows of hatred against all things Roman, the rotting smells—these things so discouraged the more sensitive of his commanders. Every time one more would die, the women would beat their chests—why did women of all cultures do this strange thing?—and curse not Vercingetorix, but Caesar. Starvation had made them irrational.

  Who should pay for these crimes but this beautiful, implacable savage?

  Vercingetorix did not flinch as the Roman soldiers eyed the Gallic warriors greedily like customers in a whorehouse. Tullian, a cavalry officer known for his homosexual predilection, had placed two of the youngest, fairest of the soldiers side by side, looking from one to the other, trying to choose.

  “Labienus, please tell Tullian that he may have both of those young men. I do not wish him baffled by the choice,” Caesar said, looking for a response of some kind from Vercingetorix, who scowled but remained still. After all, what were Caesar’s men to do? The Gauls had sentenced their own women to death by starvation. The few that remained were scrawny and dying. Still, they made him think of her. In his dreams, which came all too frequently now, their dying bodies had her face.

  Julia.

  His only child, the coltish girl he so loved, was dead. And Caesar was not even there to witness her demise, to hold her hand, to apply the ointments to her fevered brow, but was at war with these barbarians. He had been given complete reports of the event; still, he had a difficult time believing she was gone.