Pharaoh

by Karen Essex

  Kleopatra accepted the judgment of Caesar, but she was already tired of explaining things to this preposterous boy. Did he really think she would allow him to reign with her once her son was born?

  Perhaps she would banish Ptolemy the Younger to a faraway island, letting him rule it in name while someone loyal to herself kept an eye on him. Hephaestion would find such a place, and this boy was probably deluded enough to be kept contented in such a situation. Once the people of Egypt saw the son of Caesar and Kleopatra and realized the honor and power the boy brought to their nation, they would quickly forget about this last male Ptolemy. It would be Kleopatra’s union with Rome that would restore the empire of her ancestors. Why could the members of her family, not to mention the majority of the Egyptian people, not realize that fact? For it was stamped all over the earth by the boots of Roman soldiers.

  “If you do not follow my counsel, then you shall have to face the consequences. But why make trouble for yourself ? We shall both take on the title of Philadelphus, Brother and Sister Loving, to let the people know that we shall not be at odds, that you will not conspire with others against me as your brother did.”

  “But you are not my lover!” he insisted. “You are the lover of Julius Caesar and everyone knows it.”

  “Yes, that is true, and that fact will also serve us.” If this worm thought he would exercise the rights of his ancestors and find his way into her bed, particularly while she was carrying the child of Caesar, he was more deluded than he appeared. More than anything, she hoped that she did not pass on any of the characteristics of the male line of her family to her son. It would not do to keep breeding the likes of these boys.

  “I want to see Arsinoe.”

  “That is not permissible. Arsinoe is Caesar’s prisoner.” What tripe Arsinoe would put in the child’s head-rise up against the Romans for the glory of Berenike! Oh, Kleopatra could just hear the incendiary speech Arsinoe would give the boy, her last stand in Egypt before she was taken away forever.

  “Then I shall never see her again?”

  Was she having sexual relations with the little one too? How deep was their bond? Kleopatra wondered. Even if Kleopatra was able to eliminate Arsinoe’s influence, how long until another conniving eunuch got hold of the boy and reminded him of his destiny as the last son of Thea? The last hope for Egypt to be ruled by the untainted blood of a Macedonian king? The only barrier between an independent Egyptian nation and one dominated by Rome? He was not so very young, not too young to have his head filled with treasonous nonsense.

  She looked at his round, red face and his corpulent body, far too opulent in size for one so young. A ripe piece of fruit waiting to be plucked by the purveyors of political intrigue. She wondered how long she would have to tolerate him as a factor in her life. Suddenly, she felt very tired. This creature was draining the very life from her body.

  “As I said, only the gods can know the future.”

  Alexandria: the 20th year of Kleopatra’s reign

  The rustle of silks against thighs, the jingle of jewels. The sounds Antony shall hear as the women are led to him. Would that it were me, she thinks. Would that I were the object of sexual delight able to ignite that bold leader of men. But the man who shared her bed these many years, who used to make such sport of petting her, pleasing her, who never failed to move her to rapture, wants her no more.

  Antony sits drunk in the mansion he built by the sea-Timon’s Retreat, he calls it, after the Athenian who was betrayed by his friends and settled into a life of misanthropy. He spends his days staring out at the sea and at the lighthouse built three hundred years ago by Kleopatra’s ancestor, Ptolemy I Soter, the father of the House of Lagid, the general to Alexander the Great. The tower has stood as a beacon to ships at sea, guiding them into the city, ships bearing the cargo and the culture that have made Alexandria the center of the world. Now its flame burns for an inebriated recluse. A sacrilege against the memory of her deified ancestors. This cannot be. She will not let it be.

  No one can humor Antony, much less inspire him, not her (especially not her), not even his sons. Not little Philip, not Antyllus, the great strapping mirror of himself. Philip in his innocent observation did not help matters. ” Father, your face looks as wrinkled as your old clothes.” A tragically accurate simile. Nonetheless, she halts the procession of the prostitutes. She will go to him one last time, a precursor to an army of whores. Her last attempt.

  Antony is haggard; he bears the look of a beaten man. He has spent the day staring down at the peasants who make their way by pillaging ships that wreck upon the shore. “That’s the life,” he says to Kleopatra, not even taking his gaze from the window. “That’s how I wish to live henceforth. A scavenger feasting on plunder An outlaw beholden to no one.” He turns around. For a moment, his eyes shine bright from within his red, bloated face. She sees a glimpse of Antony of better days, before he had the countenance of an insane child.

  She intends to seduce him. She wishes to rekindle his desire for her, for surely that was an impetus for some of his actions in the past. Sex always cheered him. It used to invigorate him so; Antony, who always made great art of pleasing a woman. Her attempts to reason with him have failed, so she resorts to the role of seductress-ironically, the role in which Octavian and her enemies in Rome have cast her. She has dressed fetchingly, though it has taken a great deal of her energy. Adorning herself, even allowing the slaves to adorn her, is now laborious. She cares so little for the cosmetic tricks on which she once prided herself. Nonetheless, she believes she has created the illusion of beauty. But for all the Roman claims that she has him entirely enchanted, Antony barely acknowledges her presence, much less the pains taken to appear pleasing to him. He is in the grip of Dionysus, but is a joyless Bacchant. The medicine for misery fuels his agony.

  She takes Antony’s leathery hand and leads him to the pillows. She nuzzles her shoulder under his, trying to let the warmth and strength of his body please her. She tolerates the sour aroma, recalling the times they made love after battle when his odor must have been even stronger. But the smell of victory, no matter how acrid, is erotic; the smell of defeat is not. She tries to concentrate on those moments when passion and power and glory met and she experienced utter annihilation under his enormous body. The wine and the war cannot have dissipated that devastating masculinity entirely. Beyond the drunkenness and the despair, she knows that he is still Antony.

  How many times have they sat quietly like this, putting all problems and grievances aside, blocking out the world and its demands, reveling in the simple fact that in his hand hers was like a child’s, a doll’s? “Your Royal Grace is but my small toy,” he would say to her. “You rule a kingdom, but I shall have you under my power” He would sweep her into his arms and carry her to wherever it was- the bed, the bath, the floor, the table, the balcony, the garden-that he felt like making love. Antony never ceased to enjoy the audacity of having a queen, and an imperious one, serve his pleasure.

  She strokes his hand in the old way, praying that her slow fingertips grazing his tough-hide skin will remind him of those days. She turns the great paw and caress es the soft center of his palm. She brings it to her lips and gently bites the flesh with her front teeth, nibbling, licking, in the way that he used to love so.

  He ignores her. She puts his hand on her breast and squeezes it so that it engulfs the flesh over her heartbeat. He stares straight ahead, silent but for a wheeze that has of late invaded his breathing. His hand is a large dead thing limp against her chest.

  Impatient, irritated at this slovenly, lethargic creature who calls himself Antony, she drops his hand and stands up.

  “Antony,” she addresses him, not liking the admonition in her voice, but unable to suppress it. “We must talk. We must make plans. Our allies in Italy are homeless. Octavian has confiscated their property to give to his soldiers in payment for their services. In payment for betraying you. Our friends in Italy have lost the lands of their fathers. I
am told by my men that the Antonians are still loyal, that they wish to support you. But you must give them something to support. We must give a sign that we are strong, that we are ready to fight again.”

  He says nothing, but rises to sit on the ledge of the window, looking through bloodshot eyes out to sea as if he anticipates some mystical revelation to come from those waters. She wants to shout, “What are you looking for out there? Look at me.” But she continues: “Can you not see that we still might win? We lost a battle, not a war. And even that point may be contested.”

  He leans his head against the sill and closes his eyes. “I leave all further matters of strategy up to you, my dear. You excel in these things, I believe. You and your network of impeccable spies.”

  He throws his empty glass out the window and turns toward her. His red eyes blaze like a furnace. “Would you let me be one of your merchant spies, darling?” he hisses. “The gods know I’m fat enough, eh?” He strokes the girth of his stomach in self-disgust. The gesture chills her.

  “Bribing officials in foreign lands for you, my darling, while I’m selling spices to the markets, silver to the minters, perfumes to the whores. Yes, especially that. I’m an old whoremaster from way back when, aren’t I? Just ask anyone. Just ask Octavian. My love, give me leave to grow a beard, don a Greek robe, and join the fleet of fat informers on your very handsome payroll. The gods know I need the money.” He glares at her with what she could only interpret as hatred. Then he tosses his head back and laughs, the acrid smell of stale wine on his breath filling the room, making her nauseous. The sickening catch in her stomach as much in anguish over the dissolution of her husband as from an intake of foul air-the poison in his heart escaping through his mouth like a noxious gas.

  Unwilling to admit defeat, for never will she face that possibility, she tries again.

  “Octavian has put up his own estate for auction to demonstrate his need for money, while his henchmen spread the word that any who bid on it will face certain execution.” She speaks slowly, calmly, and waits for his reaction. Octavian’s duplicity always roused his anger, for whatever lies are told of Antony now, no one can say he is not a loyal and straightforward man. Instead, he displays his ironic smile, which used to anticipate some clever joke but these days casts a shudder in her soul.

  “Have you nothing to say, my darling Imperator?“she asks sweetly, trying to recover her womanliness, trying to let him know that to her, he is still the warrior, the victor she fell in love with so many years ago. Without meeting her eyes, he returns his gaze to the infernal sea. “Fulvia and I lived long and well in a confiscated house. It belonged to Pompey, but the poor fellow lost his head right here in Egypt and no longer had the need of it.”

  He laughs the shrill, consuming laugh of a madman. He hops off the ledge and into the room. That small exertion gives her a second’s hope that he has come around. But he looks at her and laughs again. She knows she has lost him. Pounding his massive fist on the small table, he cries, “More wine, you bastards. More wine.”

  The patter of the slaves’bare feet running up the stairs. The sound of Antony’s fist again hitting the wood like meat on a butcher’s slab. The boy, dark, slight, craven, entering the room of the lunatic giant. The wine bottle teetering on the tray. Antony, grabbing it in a greedy, fierce swipe. The boy losing his balance, falling into the immense shadow of the besotted old Titan pouring the liquid down his throat. The queen, alone, unattended, meeting the eyes of the boy who shrinks back in fear, sliding away from her on his backside, out of the elongated shadow of the fallen demigod with the bottle stuck to his lips like a horn singing the call to battle.

  Divine Lady, Lord Dionysus, Pallas Athena, goddess of war, how is this a proper Fate for a warrior? She leaves his quarters at once.

  Alexandria: the 4th year of Kleopatra’s reign

  Caesar watched her eyes light up and then dart away from his. He knew by now what excited her, and he could tell that the mention of his Master of the Horse had aroused the interest of the queen. Was there a woman on earth who did not respond that way to Antony?They responded to Caesar, too, but that was because they knew his power. If the two men were side by side disguised in beggar’s clothing, Antony would still be able to seduce any woman, from washerwoman to queen. Kleopatra’s face at this moment was evidence of that. And why not? Antony was a physical specimen sent by the gods to remind mortal men of what they might strive to achieve. His native beauty was startling, a masculine ideal in the way of old Greek statuary, but without the taming effete qualities. Antony was the male animal in its pure and glorious form. There were those who said Antony shared himself with men as well as women, but Caesar doubted that Antony had carried on with men past the first time he shaved his beard. Who knew? Drunk, one fine young bottom was as lovely as another, its owner’s sex be damned. Why the Romans were rabid on the subject of sexual relations between men, Caesar did not know, because virtually every Roman he knew had used his slave boys when women were scarce, or, in many cases, for the kind of vigorous sex men needed without the tedious challenge of seduction that women demanded. Why could the Romans not be as sophisticated as the Greeks?

  Caesar remembered watching Antony in Greece in battle atop his horse, the sun on his bare bloodstained arms delineating his huge muscles as he swung his sword, his highly arched nostrils drawn back with each thrust, with each slaying. More beautiful than a bull. It was cold, and smoke billowed from Antony’s nostrils as he murdered his way through enemy ranks like Herakles himself facing his adversaries. What must he have looked like to a man who had to face his wrath? It was as if time had stopped for that moment. Caesar had never experienced anything like it-as if the gods had decided to slow the rapid linear stream of events to show him the true beauty of the human form. Antony was perhaps the only man Caesar had known who made the act of killing a beautiful performance. Of course Caesar would never say this to him, or to anyone, for that matter. Some thoughts-most of one’s private thoughts, in fact-must remain one’s own observations. It would not do to let others into his mind, except for her, because she was so very exciting to talk with. Really, only Cicero was as interesting, and what was a debate with an ugly old man compared to that same experience with a stunning young woman? Cicero always smelled of one poultice or another. His health was not good, his sleeping patterns even worse, so that he was always in a bad mood. Kleopatra smelled like the inside of a flower, and she generally slept like a child and awoke energized, with that eager look on her face, as if her dreams had been wonderful and she was challenging the waking day to gift her with something of equal delight.

  He must write a love poem about her. Another of his secrets, for what respectable Roman general wrote love poetry? Again, so less sophisticated than the Greeks, whose masculinity did not diminish with sensitivity and love of beauty. Truth be known, Caesar was a bit defensive about his love poetry. Oh, he read a poem to this friend or that one, or to the odd lover, usually one who did not have such great command of Latin. He had written an entire series to Venus, of course, and now he would compose one to this girl who so reminded him of his ancestress. Not that Kleopatra had the beauty of Venus. Were she not the queen of Egypt, with royal carriage and dazzling clothing and jewels, she might not be thought beautiful at all. The nose was far too beaklike to have been carried off by a mere woman. But somehow the face of a queen tolerated it quite well, and it added to her authority. Had she been a conventional beauty, her power might have been diminished. Somehow, what would be considered flaws on the face of an ordinary woman only enhanced the genius that radiated from every expression Kleopatra offered. If he had had such a daughter, he might have tried to change Roman law and make her a senator.

  “Why have you stopped speaking, General?” She looked at him warily.

  “I must write a poem about you,” he said. “You are poetry itself, it seems to me.”

  “You are saying that because you are tired of our negotiations and you merely wish to win each point.
But I am not softened by your flattery.” She gave him her coy smile. He thought she looked relieved to be off the subject of Antony.

  “Are you not happy that I have no ill feelings over your girlish lust for Antony?”

  Now her eyes turned a colder shade of green and she dropped her smile. “I did not say that I experienced girlish lust. I said that as a young girl, I was intimidated by his handsomeness, almost to the point of embarrassment. I am certain that as a woman and a queen I should be less under his spell.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  He sensed she was holding back some bit of information about Antony. But what could it be? She was only fourteen the last time she saw him. Surely she had not indulged in an affair at that tender age? No, despite her passion, he suspected she had led a fairly chaste life. Knowing Antony, he would have less preferred a virginal princess than the brothels of exotic Egyptian whores.

  They sat in the Royal Reception Room, built by her father and dedicated to the god Dionysus, where she and her father had entertained countless foreign visitors. It was here, she said, that her father had often regaled his guests with performances on the flute. A true artist, she said, and Caesar wondered which was closer to the truth: the stories that he had heard about the daft king, or Kleopatra’s version of her father as a wise eccentric. Perhaps both were true, for what man was merely one man? Through the course of any given day, Caesar himself might be many men-warrior, commander, dictator, politician, lover, poet, scholar. And the Roman mind could be so unkind to men who were consid ered odd. Perhaps he himself might have enjoyed the king and his music, for Caesar transcended conventional Roman thinking.

  “In any case, Marcus Antonius is my Magister Equitum .”

  “Master of the Horse? Is that a cavalry position?”

  “No, dear girl, it is the second in command to the dictator. He is presently the ruling official in Rome.”