Pharaoh

by Karen Essex

  The unobstructed sun warmed her face against the sharp bite of the ocean breeze. The sky was the pure azure blue she had not seen in so many months, spotted with benevolent clouds that sailed along with the ship, whirling tufts of snowy white dancing for her as her ship clipped into the Great Harbor. She put aside the apprehension raised by Hephaestion’s cryptic letter and watched the sky-goddess’s performance, the clouds her little round daughters bouncing merrily for the queen’s pleasure. Why would Hephaestion have called the queen and prince back to a palace infested with plague? She did not question him but packed a few trunks, made hasty apologies to the Romans Caesar had charged with keeping her care and company in his absence, and departed with an alacrity that left them guessing. After all, too many members of her family had learned too late that an absent monarch soon became a deposed monarch. But word of her departure had spread about Rome even before she was gone. Cicero had sent a messenger to the dock with a long list of books he would like to borrow from the Alexandria Library upon her return.

  The bright lining in the dark cloud of Hephaestion’s letter was that she was able to send a curt note to Servilia canceling that woman’s trip to the villa planned for the following week; duty demanded her immediate presence in her own capital. Whatever the crisis at home, she thought, she would at least be spared another encounter with that noxious woman. But Servilia did not respect Kleopatra’s wishes. Instead, she sent word that the meeting must not be postponed. She would arrive the very next day.

  Caesar was not two days out of Rome and Kleopatra was one day from departure when Servilia appeared at the villa. When that lady had announced her intentions to visit, Kleopatra had extended the invitation to her daughters as well, but Servilia arrived alone, allowing that the young Roman matrons were far too busy with their children and their household duties to make visits to the country. Kleopatra wondered if Servilia was insinuating that her regal lifestyle was too indulgent-a favorite criticism the Romans used against others who did not share their fanatical, though superficial, devotion to Stoicism.

  “Whereas a mature woman like me has already reared my flock, and an active social life is my reward,” Servilia said.

  “You are alone?” Kleopatra asked. “I was under the assumption that Roman women must always be under the protection of one man or another.”

  “Or they under our protection, as the case may be.” Servilia’s oddly shaped eyes smiled along with her mouth. They were flat at the bottom and highly rounded on top, like the shape of the Alban Hills where Pompey had once lived.

  Servilia said she had felt it her duty to tell Kleopatra the terrible things Caesar’s enemies were saying behind his back: He is destroying the Republic. He wants to be a god. He wants to be a king. He wants to move the capital of Rome to Alexandria.

  Kleopatra did not know if Servilia was jealous of her, trying to warn her, or simply seeking to destroy her union with Caesar for political purposes, working as her son’s agent. In any event, she did not believe the woman was to be trusted.

  “And what do his friends say of him, madam?” Kleopatra asked. “Would you have any way of knowing those details? For example, what does your son say about him?”

  “Brutus and Caesar have ideological differences, that is all. From the time Brutus was a baby, his father filled his head with stories of how their ancestors rose up against Rome’s tyrants. He was trying to instill Republican ideals in him. He succeeded in the extreme, I’m afraid. I wish my son were not so literal. But I don’t worry too much over it. There is a kindred feeling between Brutus and Caesar that is as deep as the familial, I can assure you.”

  “That must be a great comfort to Caesar,” Kleopatra replied. What was Servilia’s game?

  “Your Majesty, the people of your country worship you as a goddess, is that not correct?”

  “They believe that Pharaoh is their link to the gods, the gods’ representative on earth. It is a tradition many thousands of years in practice.”

  “There are those who say you are whispering these thoughts into Caesar’s ear! Thoughts that he should enjoy deification, too.”

  “I thought you knew Caesar well,” Kleopatra answered.

  “As well as anyone has ever known him, I assure you. Our friendship has survived every challenge,” she said, drawing out each syllable of the word “every.”

  Until now, Kleopatra thought. “If that were true, you would know that first and foremost, Caesar is a Roman. His interests are Rome’s highest interests, not his own. And secondly, he does not require a woman’s whisper to put ideas in his head.”

  “We who know him well are aware of that fact. But I thought that Your Majesty would want to know what rumors were being put about. If we believe the philosophers, we must agree that knowledge is a form of power.”

  “Indeed. But who is instigating these rumors?”

  “Many, I’m afraid. And your own sister had a hand in it.”

  “My sister? Since when does a political prisoner have the ear of the city’s dignitaries?”

  “Your sister had audience with a small group of Roman women who pride themselves in administering to prisoners. You know the kind of do-gooders I mean?” Servilia waved her hand to show her disapproval of such types. “Women who waste our natural female sympathies on the undeserving, when they should be at home minding the affairs of the family.”

  “Why would anyone listen to her? My sister is an enemy of Rome. She would not stop fighting her war just because she was defeated and in chains, I assure you.”

  “And she did not! She fueled the rumors of Caesar’s outlandish ambitions with stories of how you and he plan to disband Rome’s government and set up a joint kingdom somewhere in the east-Babylon, Alexandria, Antioch, Troy, take your pick.”

  Servilia waited for Kleopatra’s reaction like a cat eyeing a cornered mouse.

  “Did you say as much to Caesar?” Why was she taking the trouble to enlighten Kleopatra? What dark purpose hid behind that smooth, high brow? Why did she not take her information directly to the source?

  “Yes, but you know how he is. He waved his long arm at me, leveling my fears into idle gossip that should be ignored.”

  “And my sister was believed?” Kleopatra asked incredulously, or projecting as much incredulity as she could muster. She wondered if Servilia knew how close she was to guessing the truth-the truth, but without the sinister undertones of vanquishing Rome’s government to achieve their ambitions.

  “Oh yes, because they wanted to believe her. Caesar has the great love of the masses, but some extremely powerful people fear him-and fear exactly the fruition of what the princess said.”

  “But surely you understand that these are the ravings of an hysterical and embittered girl?”

  “Of course. But she was able to do some damage before she was removed from the city.” Servilia clutched the arms of her chair as if she were about to stand, but she did not get up. Her square white fingernails turned purple with the pressure. “Your Majesty, may I break with all protocol and be utterly candid with you?”

  “As you wish,” Kleopatra said, stiffening, fearing the charge of this dauntless older woman.

  “You may think that I wish to regain my-what shall we say?-former position in Caesar’s life, but I can assure you that nothing is farther from the truth. I would have surmised the same thing when I was a young woman. But you cannot imagine the freedom that a woman gains at this stage of life without those sorts of concerns. What I am trying to tell you is that I have loved Caesar for more than thirty years, and my love for him is very far beyond wishing to be the object of his desire. We are old, old friends. He and I have always envisioned being very elderly together, unable to walk any longer without assistance; we would sit in our chairs and watch the young take over our duties while we had nothing to do but sip wine and smell pretty flowers. I do not mind that you are one of those vital young people who has already taken my place in the most enduring relationship of my life. You are welcome to th
at position. I am taking you into my confidence because I wish to grow old with Caesar in the manner in which I have described. If he is not careful-which he disdains to be-our pretty vision may not happen.”

  Kleopatra scoffed to herself at the notion of Servilia sharing Caesar’s dotage. One woman would have that honor, and it would not be an old Roman crone but a formidable young queen.

  “What are the objections of his enemies? You must help me. I do not quite understand the animosity against a man who has brought so much greatness to his country.” Kleopatra waited for Servilia to answer. She was sure that Brutus was no friend-no son-of Caesar, and she wondered if the mother was ready to confess that knowledge. For if something was afoot in this woman’s family, she surely had knowledge of it. Kleopatra doubted that a single olive could disappear from Servilia’s kitchen without her having foreknowledge of the thievery.

  “Your Majesty, it may be hard for a monarch to apprehend our ways, but the concentration of power in the person of Caesar is against our very constitution. That is my son’s objection to the dictatorship. As for the rest of them, what has raised hackles is that Caesar is giving Rome away to those who are not Roman. He has been granting Roman citizenship to all free men of Italy, giving them the same rights and privileges as true Romans. He has appointed Gauls to the very senate, and he removed Roman officials of very noble blood from their positions in the provinces and replaced them with locals.”

  Crooks! Caesar had called the Romans he stripped of power and sent home. Crooks, ingrates, inept thieves! But the queen did not repeat this to Servilia, who was undoubtedly related to some of them.

  “Lately, he has said in public that his goal is to give Roman rights to each and every free man in the empire! I must tell you that this idea- along with these strange Gallic creatures attending senate meetings in breeches-has completely infuriated his conservative critics, who believe we must keep Rome pure. Surely you see the wisdom in that?”

  “The Gallic senators were his loyal allies in the war there, I believe,” Kleopatra said. “Why should they not be rewarded? And if Gaul is now Rome, then why should Gauls not be Romans? Romans do not have to become Gallic.”

  Servilia looked shocked, her eyebrows drawn into arching question marks. “And do you envision your own subjects someday being Roman citizens, too?”

  Kleopatra did, in fact, look forward to the day when her own subjects would be given Roman citizenship. They would become Roman Graeco-Egyptians, combining the three most illustrious civilizations on earth. In her mind, it was a goal to strive for, not a change to be feared. For without change, there is no progress. But she did not think it wise to reveal too much to this woman, who undoubtedly soaked up information like a sponge.

  “Madam, as your son was brought up on tales of vanquishing tyrants, so I sat on the lap of my father the king and listened to stories of our forefather, Alexander, and his visions of a world empire governed in harmony. Alexander embraced the people of the nations he conquered, and it seems that Caesar has decided to follow his example. Surely that cannot be an error?”

  “Not in theory, Your Majesty. But this is Rome. You have not spent much time in the streets of our city. You have not heard the mob shout, ’Restore the Republic! Restore Rome to the Romans!’ when Caesar passes by.”

  Caesar had told Kleopatra that the conservative senators paid mobs to chant these slogans in the streets. “They wish to walk backward in time, but it will never happen,” Caesar had said. “Men throughout the world find the idea of equal citizenship intoxicating.”

  “And I hear that the mob also shouts ’Hail to the king!’ when Caesar passes by. I suppose the slogan depends on who is meeting the day’s payroll.”

  Servilia looked insulted. The question marks dropped, and her lips shrank from a broad, solicitous smile to two pursed prunes.

  “Madam, the world is changing,” Kleopatra pressed on. “Isn’t it wise to change with it? It seems to me that even Caesar’s enemies have benefited mightily by his progress. But it appears that his opponents wanted to reap the rewards of progress without paying the price of change.”

  Servilia stood. “I have said what I came to say. You are correct, Your Majesty. Many will ride the rapids of Caesar’s sweeping changes. But there are those few-and I believe he knows who they are, those living ghosts of Cato-who cling to the old ways like barnacles. They have my son’s ear, though Caesar still has his loyalty My advice to you is this: If you wish things to go your way, you might encourage the dictator to stop pretending that the old ways no longer matter, and to toss the old dogs some fresh meat. Otherwise, I fear that their fangs will find a way into his thigh.”

  The colossal statues of her ancestors greeted Kleopatra at the Great Harbor. Try as Caesar might to rebuild Rome to meet Alexandria’s proportions and majesty, there was still nothing in that sweaty and crowded place to rival this sight-Ptolemy Philadelphus and his wife Arsinoe II, taller even than Titans or gods, their aristocratic Macedonian features adapted slightly to make them more palatable to the conquered race, yet looming as impressively over humankind and nature as the greatest of the ancient pharaohs. Rome would have to climb a long way out of its provinciality to measure up to this, she thought.

  The pristine white city of Alexandria sprawled languidly along the rocky shore and up the hills beyond the harbor. Caesar’s monument, the Caesareum, looked as if it had been completed in her absence. Dwarfing the temple of Isis, it dominated the south shore, the twelve columns of its front and their stalwart black shadows facing the sea like a Greek phalanx. The day was clear, and the statue of Pan on the hilltop held a welcoming arm out to the queen. She could just make out the silhouettes of people in repose on the pine-cone shaped knoll, resting in the shade of satiny willow trees. She thought of Servilia’s warning and realized that the truth of it was this: Alexandria, by its geographical situation, by its rich cultural history, by virtue of the grandeur of its proportions, its sheer beauty, and the ancient knowledge housed within its institutions, was a more appropriate capital of a world empire than Rome. That idea was bound to threaten the Roman senators, those aging men whose political power was seeping from them as quickly as blood from a slaughtered animal. Oh yes, and they bled a little more each day as Caesar pushed the boundaries of Rome’s empire farther and farther into exotic lands where he would easily be hailed as king, just as they had once hailed Alexander. Though Caesar had never said he wished to be a king, it seemed to Kleopatra the unavoidable next step in his ascension.

  The ship sat in the harbor until sunset waiting for safety clearance. Nut, the sky-goddess, softened the horizon, turning Zeus’s dancing white clouds into slim, tawny fingers guiding the ship to shore. In the final moments of the daylight, when sky and city melted into a dusky blue dream, Kleopatra planted her feet on Egyptian soil. The ship’s crew had disembarked and were kissing the ground and chanting the name of Ra, and she wished that she could join them.

  She could not wait to eat food prepared in her own kitchens. The security protocol put into effect aboard the ship had taken her appetite away. Every plate of food for her and for the prince was tested by food tasters, and even then, Charmion suspiciously smelled everything before letting them put a morsel to their mouths. Sometimes Charmion made them wait to see if a toxic substance might have a delayed effect, and by the time Kleopatra tasted her meals, they were often cold. She and Caesarion slept in the same cabin, armed guards outside the door and attendants on pallets inside. The child’s fitful sleep kept her awake much of the night, hunger gnawing away at her stomach. Two days into the voyage, she longed for privacy, for a fresh plate of food served directly to her, for a walk on the deck without two big sailors following her around. She longed to tell them that she followed the philosophy of Caesar, that she did not fear death and in fact preferred it to this anxiety over someone taking her life. But she did fear death, not on her own account, but because of the blue-eyed infant, who would survive neither the cesspool of Roman politics nor the
snakepit of the Egyptian monarchy without his mother’s protection.

  And now, though no hostile militia, no rebellious mob, no disgruntled faction of citizens greeted her at the harbor, she wondered what trouble she had been called back to face. Hephaestion had kept her return quiet. No ceremonial party greeted her at the harbor, only the stately eunuch, members of his staff, and a wagon of attendants to help transport the Royal Goods back to the palace.

  “Are you too tired to be briefed this evening?” Hephaestion asked as they settled into the carriage. She noticed that he had arranged for them to be entirely alone.

  “Are you asking out of politeness, Hephaestion? I know you too well. You have already decided that we must waste no time in catching up. I’ll wager that the order is already given to serve us dinner in my office so that we can talk.”

  “Your Majesty is ever wise. I would not trouble you if matters did not necessitate urgent action.”

  He had aged in her service. When her father had appointed him ten years ago, he was slim, his face unlined, his mouth still turned up buoyantly at its corners. The office was supposed to turn over to a new adviser annually, but the family’s long history of being betrayed by its highest chancellor had persuaded Kleopatra’s father to appoint the eunuch to the position for life. He was perhaps fifty now, close to Caesar’s age, close to the age her father was when he died. Hephaestion seemed healthy still, despite the weight that had crept up his middle and into his neck and cheeks, puffing him up like a proud old rooster. He had not yet taken to the use of cosmetics like so many of his aging, castrated colleagues, save for a thin line of kohl around his fine brown eyes. His skin was much looser than when she had left him in their war camp outside the fort at Pelusium to sneak away with Apollodorus the pirate and meet Julius Caesar. Steely gray streaks swirled with his tight black curls. She wondered how many of the new visible lines chiseled into his smooth face could be attributed to his devotion to her.