Pharaoh

by Karen Essex

  She will be surprised neither if the evening ends abruptly nor if it never ends; if this is her death sentence, to remain at this banquet for eternity pretending that reality is not reality. But the evening does end, because Antony stands and announces his leave. He has taken his party by surprise-their New Dionysus has never before put an end to an evening’s revelry He is the jokester who orders the servants to close the shutters against the dawn so that the festivities may go on and on. He is the one who shouts, Why should Helios be the arbiter of day when Dionysus desires the night to remain? Kleopatra understands that on this evening, he feels his mortality more than ever, and so he must succumb to the quotidian need for sleep. One by one, those who have drunk and dined with him for thirteen years embrace him as if they expect to see him on the morrow. She sees that few meet his eyes, but many turn away in tears.

  She walks with her friends to their carriages, begging them to go into hiding. Their names are known. There will be retribution. They must leave this very night-she will give them a vessel to sail to Greece-taking few possessions and waiting to see who will be forgiven. This is our home, they say. And all the earth now sits on Roman soil. There is nowhere to go. Cleon says, Our lives will feel like death without him wherever we are. They thank her for dinner, kissing her cheek, her hand, her ring, depending on prior intimacy, as if they hope to be invited back next week to another of her lavish events.

  Antony comes to her bed. She takes him in her arms and asks him if he will change his mind. We are past words and wars and schemes, he says. I am to die and you are to live, but which of us is facing the better prospect is known only to the gods. She sighs. Do not quote Socrates to silence me, she says. I will silence you one last time, he answers.

  He pours himself over her and into her. They swim together, slick-skinned and silent, like dolphins at sea. His breathing is the most real thing she has heard all evening, every exhalation a nail pinning her to the bed. The more she sinks into the mattress the more she feels her desire rise up to meet him. This is desire’s last stand. If she lives to be an old crone, she will never again open this way to a man. If she is forced to give herself to someone else, it will be a hollow act. The love that comes from deep inside her belongs to him alone. She wraps her legs tighter around her husband, trying to send all her desire into his body so that his spirit may take it with him on his journey to the gods. She wants him to have all of it; every last vestige of pleasure her womanhood has to offer must become an indelible part of his soul now. She tries to will all her sensuality, all of her sex, to leave her muscles, her skin, her nose and mouth and arms and hands. She pushes everything she has- breasts, belly, vagina-into him, imagining her soul seep under his skin and into his blood. She sees it now coursing through his veins, filling him up. It will strengthen his spirit and help him to die with a feeling of power and not defeat, with hope and not despair. She clings to him like a baby lion to the breast of its mother as they flee the hunter’s arrow. She has given him the best part of herself and is emptying out. He brings her closer to the moment of her last climax, and she squeezes every muscle in her body before she releases, letting the last gush of her sexual self pour into him.

  Tears flow like tiny streams down her temples and into her ears. He feels her cry but he does not stop. He moves faster, but not so fast that he finishes. She will lie there and let him do this until morning if that is what he wishes. He puts his hands on her wet face and kisses her, going deep into her mouth, sucking her tongue savagely. It does not hurt. She is beyond pain. That’s it, she pleads, take the very last of me. But she feels herself begin again to quiver around his penis. No, she prays, there is no more passion in me. Take it away. She tries to free herself from that muscle’s will, but it will not stop pulsing around him.

  Empty me, she says to him. Finish me.

  You will live on after me, he says, but tonight, we go together. She lets him grab her buttocks and move her body against him the way he always does so that she has no choice but to feel the tension rise, no choice but to reach for that final release. It takes her by surprise this time, bursting like a shooting star all the way up her spine and exploding into her head until she sees a cold blackness before her eyes. I’m dying with you, he breathes into her ear, and releases himself into her.

  She is dizzy and suddenly cold. She clings to him to stop her shivering. She wishes he would put the full force of his weight on her now and annihilate her. This is how she would like to die. But he rolls to his side and stares at her face. She takes a deep breath, praying that he has not deceived her and slipped any of her passion back into her body.

  To: Gaius Octavian

  From: Marcus Antonius

  By the time you receive this letter, I shall have honored your call for my death. I ask that you in turn honor our agreement and show mercy to the queen and to her children. You and I once called each other friend and brother, and yet we have labored long and hard against one another. Remember the Fate of King Eurystheus who refused sanctuary to the family of Herakles after his death. After setting Herakles to twelve labors, the king was not satisfied with either his trials or his death. Eurystheus was not honored for his vengeance, but executed by his people, who were outraged that a family was punished for the crimes of the father. I ask you to follow not in the footsteps of the unforgiving, but rather the example of mercy given by your uncle, whom I served and whom we both loved. Be content that my labors against you brought you no harm, but in the end, lifted you up and made you even more mighty.

  The queen is beloved by her people and she lives to protect them. They offered to take up arms against you in the city, inviting slaughter upon them-selves, but the queen would not have it. She demanded that they offer you peaceful surrender and welcome into their city. She rules with grace and intelligence. She merely found herself caught in the struggle between ourselves after Caesars death. I demanded her allegiance because of her wealth and the strategic location of her country. In aligning herself with me, she did not consider that she was making herself your enemy. Remember that she fought against Caesars assassins when they threatened her borders, even at risk to herself. The children, as all children, are innocent. I ask you to remember that we are bound by blood. My mother is descended of the Julian clan, and is the third cousin of your uncle and father. My daughters are your nieces and will require your protection. Antyllus considers your sister his mother. I ask that my children not pay the price of their fathers ambitions, but retain their portions of my estates so that they may fulfill the civic duties set upon them by virtue of their births. Not for myself, but for the honor and memory of the distinguished service of the Antonii clan to the Republic of Rome, I urge you to refrain from bringing shame upon my name and upon my children.

  Caesar always said that the fearful governed by the sword, the great by mercy. Surely you no longer have any reason for fear. The queen has no wish for any-thing but peace, and to live out her years in the kingdom of her ancestors. Like her father, she wishes only to achieve the title already conferred upon her by the senate, Friend and Ally of the Roman People. I give you my word as a Roman that she will salute you.

  This is my final request and must be honored according to the wishes of the gods and by our sacosanct customs.

  Marcus Antonius, Imperator of Rome

  She awakens alone. It is not yet daylight, but he has crept away without waking her. He has left a note on the bed. After all we have lived together, what is left to say? I love you.

  This is how it will be now, every day, for the rest of her life. She will wake to see the empty space next to her cold body. There will be no arms to roll into, no shelter from the world’s cruelties, no pleasure to celebrate a victory or to palliate a defeat. No scent of wood and oil and musk on the linens. They have made their tragic bargain, and she lost the only argument she ever lost with Antony. When she tried to convince him to change his mind, he drove her mad with his Socratic taunt. Who is to say you are the more fortunate? I don’t envy
you, my queen, for you will live in a world ruled by a tyrant while I make mirth with the gods. Perhaps he is right.

  When she asked him if he would sacrifice before battle, he laughed at her and replied, I am the sacrifice, Kleopatra. He will fight as long as he might. This is his plan, to fight to the death, to die driven through the belly by a Roman swordsman, probably one trained by his own hand. He has practiced this maneuver over and over in his mind. He does not think he can force himself to make his throat vulnerable, not after all his years of perfecting the art of combat. But casting aside the shield at just the propitious moment and thrusting himself into the weapon, all the while watching the look of surprise on his murderer’s face at his rash self-destruction-this he says he might accomplish. He wishes to die fighting and not by his own hand. He who loves life and all its offerings does not believe he has the will to rob himself of yet one more day, for surely each day serves up some small pleasure hidden in its grand doses of pain. For those luxuries great and small he has lived. He has embraced the Egyptian assumption that the dead continue with their lives in the manner in which they lived but on another plane of exis-

  tence, and like the pharaohs of old, he intends to rise into the next world complete. But it will have to be another hand that sends him to that heavenly kingdom. His will to live is too great.

  She worries over this as Charmion lights the lamps in her room and begins the process of dressing her. Iras appears with the tools of his trade, opens his mouth, and is quickly silenced by that lady. He lays out the combs and pins and ribbons and jewels that he will weave into Kleopatra’s hair, while in the next room she is sponged by the body servant. Kleopatra goes through the ritual with no awareness of the hands that cleanse and perfume her, nor of those that pleat the folds of her dress or curl the tendrils around her face. Her mind is with Antony as he marches his troops out of the city and into the dawn.

  Both she and Antony know what will happen as surely as if they have lived the events. From a high hill overlooking the bay, Antony will watch as one or two captains of die-hard loyalty engage Octavian’s vessels. But as soon as the superior numbers make plain the outcome, those more attached to the idea of living will salute their enemies with their oars. The infantry, more devoted to their commander, will undoubtedly engage in skirmish, and this Antony will use to facilitate his death. He will charge into battle with the lowest of his men, and he will cast himself straight into the sword of some shocked legionnaire. Thus his life with all its ambitions and anxieties will end, and she will be left to negotiate with his enemy. She has promised to do this-for the children, for Egypt, for the sake of all they have been through together-but she fears that the lack of variation in the plan, and the dependence upon the actions of others to carry it to fruition, may lead to unexpected results. She has spent many days searching for her ultimate resolve, and no matter what she has promised, she has not yet decided if it is death or survival. Just in case, she keeps a dagger strapped in a sheath to her thigh as Mohama taught her to so many years ago.

  She walks through the palace with a small escort, and no matter how hard she tries to take every detail with her, all is blurred. In the halls, the servants are crying. The old Nubian men who squat patiently through the night, on call to answer her every need and to carry her desires to those who may give them quick fulfillment, are on their knees now, wet eyes covered with craggy hands. Some have been at their posts since her father placed them there decades ago. She sees those familiar old hands reach out to touch the hem of her dress as she walks by, smiling at them, as if she is merely going on a long trip.

  In the chaos of the main halls, kitchen maids, cooks, lamp lighters, laundresses are waiting to salute their queen. They have been told to stay at their posts, that no harm will come to them, that if the Roman takes over the palace and sleeps in the queens bed this very evening, he will be kind to those who attend to him. Still, the loyalists are pushed aside by a diaspora of nonbelievers who flee into the streets, carrying full satchels in their hands and babies on their backs. Kleopatra wonders where they think they will go. Some have said they will not wait upon the Romans, that they will anticipate her return and come back. Others, she knows, have stolen what they believe they can get away with and are planning to sneak out of the city. Do they not know that they will be stopped by Octavian’s men, who will put them to death for stealing his property?

  Except for the lonely patter of the footsteps of the few who are running away, the streets are eerily quiet. She listens for the sounds of war, but only hears the shrill chirp of birds in the acacia trees lining the avenue. It is a short walk to the mausoleum, and she takes in the smell of honeysuckle carried on the morning breeze, still cool though it is the second day of August. The sky is silvery, and the city is a blur of whites and greens. She does not imagine that it will be any different tomorrow. The Romans do not sack great cities, but slowly bleed them. The treasures of her ancestors will not disappear in any noticeable fashion, but slip away one by one on ships that will carry the glorious confluence of Egyptian majesty and Greek beauty to their thieving bastard child, Rome. She wonders if it is better to die today, with the city and the treasury and her pride intact, or to sit on a throne like a puppet, taking orders and cues from a man she disdains. She has lived her life true to her principles. When that is no longer possible, is it better to die?

  The mausoleum sits by the sea, next to the temple of Isis. It is very tall, with only one door that has a tiny, secret portal for the queen to receive messages, and windows so high that robbers would have to be winged creatures or Titans to gain entrance. The door locks from the inside, protecting the building’s inhabitants. Before she enters, she looks to the lighthouse, its flame burning in the morning mist, guiding the enemy to its shores. She thinks of Alexander in his tomb, cursing her, she imagines, for relinquishing his city to a Roman. Dirt farmers not worthy of his interest when he was alive. She makes him a silent promise that this is but a momentary humiliation; that if not she, then her children will rise up and seek revenge in his name. All must be in the service of that goal.

  She asks her chosen companions-Charmion, Iras, Hephaestion- if they would change their minds. No one is required to entomb themselves with her. Charmion answers her with a look of utter disdain. Hephaestion only smiles at her foolishness. She hopes Iras will give in to his fears and remain outside because he is one to need comfort rather than to give it. But you are my life, he says to the queen, and walks into the building before she can ask him again.

  She has had the walls painted in murals of the city, with its temples and colonnades and glimmering white beauty, brought to life now by torches, just as the city outside is awakened by the dawn. She wanted to live in the city in death as she had presided over it in life. She had no idea when she built it that she would one day be entombed alive.

  The tomb is as silent as if its inhabitants are already dead. No one speaks. Hephaestion reads poetry. Charmion writes letters, and Iras embroiders tiny diamonds into a comb, as if the queen were this evening attending a state affair and he readying her hair ornament. Barely a noise creeps in from outside; it is as if the city has died, too. People have shut themselves inside their homes. Merchants have not opened their stores; stalls at the marketplace sit abandoned. Peasant children do not play on the shore. It is so quiet that she wonders if Poseidon has silenced the oceans waves in sorrow.

  Finally, she hears the clop of a single horse in the distance, and an interminable time before someone dismounts and raps at the portal. Hephaestion opens the small trap so that Kleopatra can see the moving lips of Diomedes, the scribe she sent to record the details of the battle, telling her the story she does not want to hear. She watches it play out in her mind as the dreadful words pass into the chamber.

  “There was no battle, Your Majesty The Imperator watched as his fleet sailed into the dawn and joined the single line of Octavian’s vessels. The ships fit so neatly and naturally in his formation that one won-

 
; ders if they had been expected and their places reserved. The entire navy sails now toward the city as one. When the cavalry saw the rapid desertion of the navy, they rode away from the Imperator to Octavian. The foot soldiers fell in behind the horses and deserted. The Imperator was left standing with only his personal guard. I believe he lost his mind while witnessing his men go over to his enemy.”

  Though Kleopatra’s heart is racing, her body is cold. “And what did he do?”

  “He started for the palace. He said that after the morning’s events, he expected to find you there in the Roman Octavian’s arms.”

  “Even at this hour he is not above histrionics,” Charmion mutters.

  Kleopatra ignores her. “He is alive?”

  “He is alive, but he has offered his servant a thousand talents to kill him. He is not himself, Your Majesty.”