by Karen Essex
“You must learn to eradicate doubt, Kleopatra, or you shall not make a good mother to our boy.”
“May I still not know your plan?”
“Now more than ever, it is crucial that you do not. But mark the words of Caesar. By this time next week, we shall be rid of at least a few of our most pressing problems.”
He drifted off to sleep, leaving her vulnerable, ignorant of what he would do next, and praying to the gods that she had not been a naive girl all along, believing the tender words of an inveterate diplomat and seducer.
She did not sleep that night, or the next, or the next. She lay awake stroking her stomach and praying to the goddess. After Caesar had gone, she roused the priest in the middle of the night, and had him make a small sacrifice. Alarmed at her urgency and groggy with sleep, the priest had his attendants light the torches in the temple and bring in a small goat. Its entrails were the image of good health, he assured her, and so Her Majesty’s intentions were honored by the goddess.
Kleopatra tried to be consoled by this analysis, but she had never felt so alone. Her supporters and Charmion were trapped behind enemy lines. She was entirely dependent upon Caesar’s goodwill and authority, and besides his cryptic word and his good but implacable humor, she had no solid assurance that she might rely on him. His men might as easily murder her in her bed as protect her if her sister’s soldiers burst through the barricades and into the palace. Why should they stop an assault on her? Some would consider it a service to Rome to slay Caesar’s foreign mistress-especially if it were known that she was carrying his child. If Caesar had already guessed, others may have, too.
She passed the rest of the night with her hands on her stomach talking to the boy, calling him young Caesar, telling him her plans for his future, who his mother was, who his father was, his ancestors. She recounted tales of Alexander, from his boyhood through his conquests of kingdoms and nations. From the library she sent for a copy of the story of Alexander hunting the lion and read it to her unborn child.
“Alexander’s father, too, was a great warrior, but never forget that Alexander surpassed him in achievements. So might you, difficult as it may be for your tiny self to apprehend. And Alexander’s mother struck fear in the hearts of men, as apparently your own mother has done to her own brothers and those who advise them. And I shall do so even more and with greater ferocity when you are a grown man and rule at my side.” Kleopatra smiled at the thought of inspiring fear in men. Roman soldiers thought they held dominion over everything, including the sowing of fear in the hearts of others. “They may have to share their domain with us,” she said, hoping her son already had a sense of humor, of irony, that would put him in good stead with his father. “And do not forget, Alexander’s detractors said the same awful things about him that they say of your father, that he was mad for power and that he ruled Fortune. Those were the jealous Greeks, the Spartans and Athenians who had to abdicate their power to the greater man. Those on the decline always criticize those on the rise.” She promised to take him to Alexander’s tomb and get his blessing as soon as he was old enough to be taken out of the palace. She hoped his little spirit was ready to take on the weight of his earthly mission. If the philosopher is correct, and all knowledge is but remembering what the soul already knows, then you must come into this life with full memory of all that has gone before you.
She calmed herself this way, communicating with her son so easily that she was certain his soul was present with her in the room, until finally, her aloneness and her fears were lifted. She thought that she might be a fine mother, one with the power to inspire greatness in her offspring, for what else might be the purpose of a queen who out of necessity would pass along her throne? She patted her stomach until she believed she had calmed the child as well as herself, and then she drifted off to sleep as the vaporous light of dawn floated lazily into the room.
Days later, Caesar burst into their chamber with the news that her brother was drowned, Ganymedes dead, and her sister in chains. Caesar had outfoxed Ganymedes, of course. He had made a great show of sailing out of the city with his legions to join Mithridates. He did meet up with the reinforcements, but in the middle of the night, when the Egyptian army was deep in slumber, they sneaked back through the western gate, taking them by surprise and easily vanquishing them.
Caesar smiled more broadly than ever before. Kleopatra’s first thought was not thank the gods, but rather, now I shall owe Caesar everything.
Unless the gift of a son was equal in his mind to the gift of a throne.
Arsinoe looked at her brother’s death mask and felt nothing. The artist had improved his features, making him appear a bit thinner and more secure than he had ever looked in his short lifetime; nonetheless, there was nothing to miss in that round and vapid face. Never again would she have to see the ridiculous expressions he made as he reached for his pathetic moment of ecstasy. The awful contortions of an already disgusting face. The moaning and groaning as he struggled with something inside himself, or so it seemed, struggled against his own horrible pleasure. And then the inevitable mess at the end. She would never have to do that again, which was the thought she had held firmly in her mind as she and Ganymedes had forced her brother and his men into the boat that would take them on the long trip down the Nile; that was, if they made it, what with human cargo twice the weight the vessel could support. Either way they would have perished-by the hands of the Egyptians who would be furious at the king who had capitulated to the Romans, or by nature herself as she dragged them to the river bottom.
There was nothing here to mourn, and yet the Roman soldiers kept looking at Arsinoe as if she was supposed to have a certain kind of reaction. She had cried her tears over the serene death mask of Ganymedes, who had been executed by the Romans for political expediency. Arsinoe had begged for his life to the Roman commander, but was told that the eunuch had too many militaristic ambitions to be spared. She knew that he was being killed merely because he had almost outsmarted Julius Caesar, and undoubtedly the crafty old Roman could not tolerate the existence of one who had almost bettered him in battle. If it had not been for the late arrival of the Jewish forces-bullied into joining their conqueror’s cause-Arsinoe would at this moment be queen of Egypt and Ganymedes her Prime Minister. And Kleopatra’s head would be on the executioner’s block, and it would be Julius Caesar’s filthy Roman armor and not her brother’s displayed in the marketplace, though she would have undone her brother anyway.
Arsinoe remembered the first time Ptolemy came to her chamber. It was right after the death of their father, when the eunuch Pothinus- dead now as well-had insisted the marriage between Ptolemy and Kleopatra take place. Kleopatra had agreed to the ceremony, but afterward she refused to let Ptolemy into her bed. The boy, red with humiliation and anger, came rushing into Arsinoe’s room, calling her his true wife and queen and promising that he would see Kleopatra if not dead, then in exile. And he had made good on that promise.
Arsinoe had had no choice but to comply with his salacious wishes. She had no one to look after her interests but the unsavory boy who removed his clothes and slipped under the blanket beside her. And so she succumbed, playing the role of lover with all the passion of an actress, for she remembered what sweet love had felt like and she could enact it for this fool who actually believed she enjoyed touching his putrid flesh. She could not tell him that compared to the body of the fair and taut Berenike, it looked to her like uncooked, milk-fed veal.
She turned away from the sarcophagus and met the faces of her captors, Roman soldiers who eyed her leeringly, staring at her body. She was not afraid, and returned their gaze with an imperious and defiant stare like the one Berenike had given at her trial. She had heard that Caesar had given strict orders to the men not to harm her in any way. Surely he had disobeyed the wishes of his mistress in that regard, for she knew that Kleopatra wanted nothing more than to see her dead. Then and only then would that whore of the Romans be safe.
Well,
let the Roman-lover try to have her executed. Arsinoe would face her death bravely and with dignity, just as Berenike had done when their own father demanded her death. And she would leave behind her a trail of animosity against Kleopatra and the Romans that would destroy them all, for she knew that many of the tribes of Alexandria were disappointed that Kleopatra had prevailed.
She dared not hope for life. Alive, she was of no earthly use to her sister. She could be nothing but a threat, because there was still the younger brother who was already twelve years old, and Kleopatra would soon have to face the reality of his existence and of her own position. And at any point in his life, under the influence of an ambitious courtier or of his own volition, Ptolemy the Younger could decide that Kleopatra was not his ally, and he could have her murdered in her sleep and replaced with the seemingly compliant Arsinoe. After all, the two of them had grown up together in the nursery, and after his mother and Berenike were dead, who had mothered him but herself? To him, Kleopatra was a half sister, an inconvenience, a threat, or all of these things, whereas Arsinoe was a full and true sister, an affectionate sibling, the closest thing to a mother the boy would ever know.
She knew the reason she was presently kept alive, and it had nothing to do with Kleopatra. She had heard it from those within the palace who attended her and who secretly still supported her. Julius Caesar had told Kleopatra that he would not execute a girl. Not that he cared who lived or died, but he did not wish to mar his reputation for mercy. And that was that. Apparently, Kleopatra had shut up for once and did not argue with Caesar to do her bidding. Arsinoe doubted that Kleopatra was trying to follow her lover’s example for mercy. Julius Caesar could afford to be merciful; a Ptolemaic queen fighting for the throne could not. Kleopatra probably had an alternative plan for Arsinoe’s demise and was not yet ready to reveal it to Caesar. If Arsinoe’s sources were correct, Kleopatra must have revealed quite a bit of news to Caesar in recent weeks. Unless Kleopatra had suddenly taken to doing her own laundry, there was only one reason for a woman to go two months in the palace without sending bloody linens into the baskets for cleaning.
Arsinoe’s women could not help but to notice this discrepancy. And Arsinoe had laughed and replied that she had always suspected Kleopatra was not a real woman. Perhaps she did not bleed like one.
With a Roman sentinel flanking her on either side, Arsinoe stepped out of the mausoleum and into the light. The winter air had dried out the city, and the sky was as gray as the metal of a sword. It was as if the whole of Alexandria had taken on the color of war. The young princess looked down the long colonnade that lined the Street of the Soma. The vines that snaked up its columns had shriveled up for the season, leaving those tall, elegant Greek flutes wrapped in dead brown leaves. She did not know if she would ever see her city again. She was to be taken prisoner in the palace, and then sent to Rome to be marched in Julius Caesar’s victory parade. His prize. How she wished she might find a way to take her life before that humiliating moment. But something kept Arsinoe from pursuing that line of thought. Surely she could have a servant sneak in a vial of poison or a dagger. How complicated could that be? On the other hand, she might gain something from this long voyage to the city of her enemy. She had spent her life pretending to be one thing or another-a compliant lover, a nurturing sister, an ally. Only with Berenike had she passed those rare and early moments of authenticity in her short life. She would now rely on her ability to dissemble. She would allow herself to be paraded in front of the Roman vermin, because that was the price to pay for access to the Roman mind. Once given that access, Arsinoe would fill eager ears with stories of her sister, of how Kleopatra’s ambitions were only seemingly in line with those of Rome. She would tell long tales of how Kleopatra had deceived her father, her brothers, and her sister, only to serve her own ambitions to be queen. It was all Arsinoe might manage in the way of revenge. She knew that Kleopatra would continue to call for her demise, and she could not blame her. If the gods had been good to Arsinoe and if she had been in Kleopatra’s place, she would do exactly the same.
Dear Your Majesty,
It has come to my attention that you no longer require any of my services. Therefore, forgive me if I do not return to my position as your adviser and to the Order of the Brotherhood of the First Kinsmen. As you recall I am a partner in a very lucrative import business with our friend Hammonius, and I am needed in Rome. I shall go where I am needed. It was a pleasure and an honor to serve you. If I was not assured that you were receiving equally good service in my stead, I would return to you immediately. But it does appear that you are well taken care of in all regards.
I am leaving all further matters of the army to the discretion and administration of Hephaestion, a man equally loyal to you and, given his physical condition, perhaps more suited to be part of your new regime.
I shall always honor the memory of your father and the kindness he bestowed upon me. If Your Majesty finds in the future that she needs me, I shall return to her immediately and without question. Until then-
Your Cousin and Kinsman,
Archimedes
She could not say that the sight of his penmanship and the hurt and bitterness that bled from the words did not go straight to her heart and wound her. She had disappointed him and injured his pride, and he had deserved much better from her. He had been loyal, he had been willing to lay down his life for her, and he had loved her. For those sacrifices he willingly made, he received in return the news that she had become the lover of Rome’s dictator.
Why is it that a man might have had such a liaison and thrown it off as either necessity or dalliance? Why is it that a man, particularly a king, might have arranged to keep them both? Caesar-indifferent, implacable Caesar-might have tolerated an alternative lover in her bed, but Archimedes, with his Greek passion and temperament and masculine pride, would never play the lover to another man’s mistress, especially if she were carrying his child. She was glad Archimedes was going straight away to Rome. She could not bear to look upon his face, his keen, moist eyes that undressed her even before he laid his hands on her body, his beautiful long neck, his brown locks that tickled her face when he was on top of her. Sometimes she could hear his laugh inside her head, or remember the way he bit her neck with hot teeth, and she would thrill to her core, blushing, covering her face with her hands lest she have to explain this sudden color to anyone, especially Caesar.
She missed him. But she did not have the luxury of wallowing in that sorrow. Caesar had planted inside her belly the course for a different kind of future.
At least she was spared the ritual of mourning for a husband. She had had the foresight to rush a divorce through the Egyptian court as soon as her brother left the palace. She argued that she could not stay married to someone with whom she was at war. That fact, combined with a word of encouragement from the Roman dictator, and the divorce was quickly granted. She did not have to go to his tomb and beat her breasts or enact any such nonsense over the brother-husband for whom she felt not one iota of affection or even respect.
With Ptolemy the Elder interred and Arsinoe in prison, Kleopatra went to her last sibling, Ptolemy the Younger, and explained to him the situation. He was the youngest of a fairly large family and had the characteristics of one who was positioned as such. He had been indulged in some ways and kept ignorant in others. Too young to have a keen sense or memory of the coups of his mother and eldest sister, he had been allowed to play the role of prince in the nursery. He had grown accustomed to Arsinoe and the older brother calling him “King of the Seleucids,” for they, with Pothinus’s ample encouragement, had promised him they would conquer the lost empire of Seleucus for him and allow him to rule over it. Kleopatra told him that the Romans had long since conquered the lands once ruled by Alexander’s companion, and that they were fighting the Parthians now to keep their domain. The boy seemed surprised.
“That doesn’t mean that I shan’t have it in the future,” he said. “Pothinus always sai
d that Rome would destroy itself, either with or without help from us.”
“Whether that is true or not, only the gods know,” she replied, trying to be patient with this pudgy boy, this ugly reminder of her stepmother, Thea. “In the meanwhile, the papers are being drawn up for our marriage. Caesar wishes us to follow the traditions of our ancestors and the terms of our father’s will.”
“I am to be king, then?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I shall have a Regency Council? Like Pothinus and Achillas and Theodotus were to my brother?”
“Julius Caesar and I are your Regency Council,” she said.
“But he is your lover!” the boy said. “If you are to be my wife, then how is it proper that your lover be my regent?”
“Dear Brother, listen to me. Despite the foolishness you have heard all your life from your brother and sister and their silly eunuchs, you must adjust to the present situation, to the order of things as it exists, not as you wish it to exist in your fantasies. Now, if you simply follow the wise counsel of Caesar and myself, you shall not fall victim to the same Fate as your elders.”
“And if I do not?”
How tedious was this conversation. The boy did not know how fortunate he was to be alive at this moment, to be free, and not to be chained to Arsinoe, waiting to be paraded through Caesar’s triumphal arch and into Rome. She had suggested it, but Caesar declined to follow her advice. To rule Egypt legally, she required a male consort. Neither Rome nor Egypt was prepared for that man to be Julius Caesar, at least not yet. Since the time when Ptolemy I had married his son to his daughter in imitation of the pharaohs, the pattern had been the same. To change it so quickly, on the tail of a civil war, would not be wise. “One thing at a time, darling,” Caesar had said. “You mustn’t be impatient. It’s the surest road to failure.”