Ave, Caesarion

by Deborah Davitt

  “Why in the name of Pluto and Proserpina didn’t you say something?” Antony demanded, catching her shoulder in one hand. “I was there. I could have done something—”

  Cleopatra gave him a weary look. “And even if you had believed me, would you have sacrificed your life and career for an infatuation with an adolescent girl? Would you have killed the ruler of a sovereign nation at the word of his co-ruler? If you’d survived long enough to escape the throne room, I’m sure Rome would have disavowed you as a madman who’d let his humors get the better of his reason.” She shrugged. “And I had no reason to trust you then, either.” A sigh. “So you see, Antony, Gaius was a strong and noble man who happened to have enough power behind him to put me back on my throne and rid me of my brother. I came to love him, and he came to love me. It worked.” She regarded him steadily in the low light. “I don’t come to you particularly clean, Antony.”

  “Does anyone our age come to each other clean?” he asked, pulling her into his arms. And held her there. “So that’s why you have so many concerns about your daughters.”

  “I know what men are capable of,” Cleopatra answered, dully.

  “I would never touch them.” He paused. “I can’t say I won’t look. Hot weather, thin tunics. Looking happens.”

  “I don’t care about looking.”

  “Good. I’m not putting my eyes out for you.” A little rough humor, because he didn’t know what else to say. “Ten years ago . . . what put that look back in your eyes?”

  “Gaius had had one of his seizures. Not the kind that killed him. But the kind he hadn’t had for decades. And life suddenly seemed so fragile. As if we were all dancing on the edge of a knife, and any wrong step would send us tumbling into the abyss. And you were young. And alive, and vital. I was stupid and let myself feel something in the garden. And then I could see that whole path unfolding before me. Lies, betrayal of a man I loved, and who’d given me so much.” She shrugged. “I couldn’t go down that path.”

  He kissed her then, as gently as he could manage. “You know,” Antony told her when he raised his head, “dancing on the knife’s edge is where I feel most alive.” He pulled her back with him, and delicately kissed down her throat, with far more care than he typically showed. “You know that I have a praenomen, yes?” he added, his voice muffled. “I’d give my left hand to hear you use it here in bed.”

  “You want me to call you Marcus?” Cleopatra actually laughed. A faint, slightly uncomfortable sound. “That tastes odd on the tongue.”

  I can’t actually remember the last time anyone called me by it. In the military camps, in the Senate, in the dining chambers where agreements are really hammered out . . . . “Even Octavia called me Antony,” he admitted, kissing lower now. “Put a damper on things.” He nuzzled her breasts gently. “Give it a try.” He paused in his journey southwards along her body. “Fair warning. If you don’t leave . . . hmm, now? I will not stop until I’ve made you forget every name you know except for mine.”

  She arched her eyebrows. “Such confidence,” Cleopatra taunted. “I must admit, I have wondered if anyone could be as good as you think you are.”

  Antony grinned up at her, and descended all the way under the blanket. “I am widely-traveled,” he called up to her, his voice muffled. “And there are things that Gallic women demand in bed that I’m not sure that you will believe until you feel them.”

  “Then let’s put it to the test, shall we?”

  ____________________

  Tahut-Nefer, mage-priest of Thoth, stewed outside the command tent. The temple of Thoth in Thebes had received a letter three months ago from Queen Cleopatra, ruler of upper and lower Egypt, hand-maiden of Isis, beloved of Amun-Ra, descendant of Ptolemy and kings going back through the millennia to the very dawn of time—and, incidentally, widow of some upstart northern barbarian who dared to consider himself noble because one of his ancestors had apparently screwed a Hellene goddess. The letter had brought news of such import that his superiors at the temple had immediately sent Tahut-Nefer to the queen’s side—a journey that had required him to take ship to Ostia, and then speak with these suspicious, supercilious northerners in their sweat-stained wool garments that reeked of wet animal. Ascertain where the queen and the court were currently located, and then talk his way into a contingent of troops that had been headed that way, himself.

  He’d been fortunate enough to find a man of high rank—someone calling himself by the unpronounceable name of Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa (why these barbarians all had three names, if not four, was quite beyond Tahut-Nefer; they must all think that they were kings instead of jumped-up herdsmen). And this Agrippa had looked over the letters of introduction Tahut carried that were written in Hellene, and agreed to take the priest with him to meet with Cleopatra and her son, Ptolemy, pharaoh of Egypt, son of Isis and Osiris, beloved of Amun-Ra and, incidentally, the leader of these savages. Tahut had noted with disgust that most of them, while sensible enough to remove most of their body-hair, left their heads unshaven. The potential for lice and fleas in their camps made his skin crawl, and he spoke a charm over his bedding every night to drive scorpions and other pests far from his skin.

  After the long and arduous journey to reach his queen and the pharaoh, on a journey that had been of the greatest urgency, it was intolerable to be forced to wait and kick his heels. Yes, yes, there was a siege. But this Agrippa, a woman, and a group of children had been given admittance to the command tent yesterday. And he’d watched from across the compound as a hawk streaked down from the sky and straight into the command tent—surely a sign of great favor from Horus!

  The siege had gone on. Tahut had observed the sacrifices to Mars with a grimace of distaste locked on his lips, not recognizing, at a distance, the young man who conducted the sacrifices. A high priest of the war-god, apparently. Young for the honor. He didn’t examine the bulls’ hair. Even one black hair disqualifies the bull from sacrifice, impure in the sight of the gods. Everyone knows this. His grimace had deepened. At least they didn’t sacrifice cows. Bulls may be feasted upon, but not the females, sacred to Isis as they are. Though I have no doubt that every man here has eaten of the flesh of the cow. Hellenes do. Which is why no man or woman of Egypt would ever kiss a Hellene upon the mouth, or use a roasting spit previously used by a Hellene. The foulness of them disgusts our gods. He exempted the line of Ptolemy in his mind from his disapprobation; most of the Hellene blood had been bred out of the family, and Queen Cleopatra, favored of Isis, spoke Egyptian and observed Egyptian ways. Except in choosing as her consort one of these unclean savages. But no man could ever really understand the mind of a woman, could he?

  He settled in with his scrolls as the city burned, ignoring the clamor of horns as best he could. And when dawn brought with it a staggering number of casualties, Tahut emerged, blinking, from his tent and observed the Romans scurrying about the camp. Surely now I will be granted admittance on this great errand—but no. There goes the pharaoh—gods of the underworld, it’s the young priest from last night! He has hair on his head, and looks just like one of these savages that he commands! Tahut’s shock nearly overwhelmed him. A pharaoh was worshipped as a god, come to earth. A mortal vessel, yes, holding a divine soul that allowed him to commune with the other gods more directly than even the rest of the priesthood. There had been that edict last year to stop worshipping Ptolemy and his mother, but Tahut hadn’t paid that much heed. A pretext to make the Roman savages happy certainly didn’t mean much to a civilization three thousand years older than their cities.

  Covered in blood, which means he was in the thick of the fighting. A credit to his ancestors, who were all warrior-kings, true, but he should have been using a bow, further back from the lines . . . his mind spun. How is this man my pharaoh? How is this man the god-king of Upper and Lower Egypt?

  Someone touched his arm, and Tahut swung, frowning. Some Hellene-looking man, with a fillet to hold back his hair was staring at him. “Pardon me, but are y
ou a physician?” the Hellene asked.

  Tahut stared at the man’s hand on his arm, and the Hellene withdrew his grip. “My name is Seleukos. I’m a physician with the Fifth Legion, and I’d asked the Imperator several months ago if he’d find us an Egyptian physician to help with head wounds. Are you a physician? We’ve need of every trained hand right now—”

  The Hellene savages have some basic understanding of medical matters, but none have delved deeper into the mysteries of the bodies than we of the Nile. Tahut shrugged stiffly. “I am a priest of Thoth. I have some experience with battle wounds, but I’m expecting a meeting with the pha—with your emperor—shortly.”

  “They’ll call for you when they need you,” the Hellene told him brusquely. “Come along. Make yourself useful.”

  Hating the man silently, Tahut trailed along to the large structure set up for the care of the wounded. And when he was indeed presented with an unconscious man who’d taken a large stone, dropped from atop a wall, to the head, he shrugged. “I would drill a hole through the skull,” he informed Seleukos, who gaped at him. “There is pressure inside the brain. You must release the pressure, or he will die.”

  “But won’t drilling into his skull kill him? Hippocrates writes of the practice, but I’ve never performed it personally. And the infection afterwards . . . .” the Hellene asked, looking concerned.

  “Generally, you stop drilling before you reach the brain itself. In his condition, he’ll die anyway. Better to take the chance, than not to do anything at all. And the wound must be kept clean afterwards.” Tahut shrugged again. “Past that, it’s in the hands of the gods. I recommend prayer.”

  “But how do you know that it works?” Seleukos asked, staring from the limp body to the Egyptian and back again. “Have you performed it before?”

  “Yes. Twice. One of them even survived the process. Both of them were masons who had large pieces of statuary fall on their heads during construction on various monuments. I suspect the first one was too far gone anyway.” He paused, and then added, unable to resist, “Your Hippocrates practiced autopsy. Investigating this body or that after death to guess at the cause. We of Egypt open every body after death. Small slits, to prevent the body from being disfigured in the afterlife, yes. But we know what’s inside every man and woman. The heart holds the ka, the spirit. The brain, eh. Useless and impossible to preserve. Only the gods know what it’s for.” Tahut shrugged. “But damage it, and you die. If you fetch me an augur, I’ll perform the procedure myself.”

  Fortunately, the patient was so far unconscious that the soldier didn’t even twitch as Tahut shaved the damned dirty, greasy hair away. And then held the skull between his knees and used the iron augur to bore the required hole. Blood welled forth, and there was the usual stink of the brain cavity, fouler even than rotten eggs. And then he stopped partially through the skull, and had the Hellene hold the augur, too, so that the physician could feel the way the bone gave way to softer materials. “You see? There is a space between the bone and the brain itself. Filled with clear liquid.” The liquid itself poured forth now, and Tahut watched as the Hellene wiped the blood away with a cloth dampened in wine. “Plenty of room before you damage anything, if you don’t go at it like a butcher.” He shrugged.

  Seleukos gave him a cold, hard stare. “A butcher?” he asked, in tones of deep affront. “There are no hands safer for my men in all of Rome than mine. I asked for your advice because you’ve performed the technique before. Now that I’ve seen it, I will not require your assistance in the future.” He gestured towards the groaning lines of bloody men on biers all through the hospital. “They, however, require your attendance. Get to work . . . priest.”

  Sniffing to himself at the unwarranted arrogance of the Hellene, who certainly had no right to be giving him orders, Tahut did tend to several more wounded men. Mostly as he had nothing else constructive to do, and doing so might gain him points with the young pharaoh and Queen Cleopatra—if he were ever permitted to see the pair who’d summoned him.

  There was a second round of sacrifices—more bulls—to thank the gods for victory. Again, conducted by the young pharaoh. And then more hours of tending to the wounded passed. Finally, at sundown, a messenger found him in the hospital. “Tahut-Nefah?” the Roman asked, mangling the pronunciation of his name.

  “Tahut-Nefer. Yes.” The priest turned, staring at the man.

  “The emperor will see you now.”

  Entering the command tent at last, and trying desperately not to let his contempt show. A handful of servants to fan the air, and who were setting up food and drink on the large table there. Wine, not good, strong beer. Bread, yes. Some sort of smoked, salted meat—ham, he identified. From the unclean flesh of the pig, such as was eaten in Lower Egypt, but not in Upper. Preserved fish—another unclean food. He fervently prayed that he would not be expected to sup with these barbarians. The royal family of Egypt had sunk low, indeed.

  And yet, his errand remained. Finally, Cleopatra entered. It must be her; she wore a dark blue kalasiris and a wide, jeweled collar around her neck, draping over her breasts like a waterfall of wealth, scarabs of costly jade tucked among the gold beads. Kohl around her eyes like a decent woman, and her short-cropped hair, suitable for tucking under a wig, was no Roman style he’d yet seen.

  Tahut-Nefer dropped to his knees in obeisance and touched his head perfunctorily to the ground. “Vessel of Isis, star of the morning heavens, beloved of Amun-Ra, she who is queen in Egypt, I bear greetings from the temple of Thoth—”

  A gentle cough interrupted his formal greetings. Tahut turned his head just enough to look out of the corner of his eye as the young pharaoh entered, wearing a purple tunic with a gold-clasped belt. Clean of all the blood and grime of battle, he looked healthy and vital. And for the first time, Tahut could see the man’s eyes, and got a shock. This is a god made flesh. No mortal has eyes like that! My doubts—ah, gods, forgive me my doubts. But why bring your mortal vessel to this place, and allow him to ignore all the precepts of your worship? Why let him wear the spun hair of unclean animals and not good linen? Why let him eat the flesh of unclean beasts?

  “My pharaoh,” Tahut managed, as these thoughts swirled through his head, scrambling around on his knees to direct his obeisance more towards the young god-king. “Descendant of Osiris, beloved of Amun-Ra and of Horus, judging by the signs before battle—”

  More faces behind the young man now. An older Roman man, also in a tunic, his red. Eyes glinting in amusement. A young man, with the same light gold skin as the pharaoh, but not quite so tall, in a cobalt blue tunic. And behind them, two young women, both dressed after the fashion of Rome, not in decent kalasiris dresses. All the flouncy layers were the best these savages could do to show wealth, and no jewelry.

  “Please stand,” the young pharaoh told Tahut in Latin, with what certainly looked like embarrassment. “I don’t need you groveling on your knees.”

  Tahut stood uncertainly, taken aback at being addressed in the language of foreigners. He’d expected Hellene, at the worst, since it was the language of the court in Alexandria. “My lord,” he went on, at a loss for what to say without several more minutes of formal introductions. “I am Tahut-Nefer, priest of Thoth. I gave my letters of introduction to your servants on my arrival. Your respected mother sent word to our temple at Thebes that one of your sisters has shown signs of power. I am here to evaluate her, and, if necessary, take her to Thebes for training.”

  “You will not be taking her anywhere,” the young man informed him coldly, taking a seat at the table and gesturing for the others of his family to join him. Tahut didn’t move; once they’d all taken stools around the table, he could see that no place had been set for him. Gods be praised. “You will train her here, in Rome. If there is need.” An ironic reflection on Tahut’s own words.

  “My king, you do not understand,” Tahut said, trying for diplomacy. “If she truly expresses the gifts of Thoth, then she may be a danger to herself
and to everyone around her until she’s been trained. Truthfully, the only safe place for any of us is in the temple at Thebes. Confined there to study and work our arts far from where others may be endangered by them.”

  The red eyes bored into his own. “No,” the young ruler said, after a long moment. “She stays in Rome.”

  Cleopatra intervened, smiling faintly, “The respected priest of Thoth forgets, perhaps, that his god is not the only god of magic in Egypt. Isis is the lady of magic as well. I was trained by her priests.” She held out her hands, rubbing them together vigorously and murmuring an incantation that Tahut recognized under her breath. Then she spread her hands and blew on her palms, sending a shower of sparks everywhere.

  The older man sitting to her left jerked away, his expression full of consternation. One of her own children, the younger of the two girls, shrieked a little, and everyone else hastily beat down the sparks with their hands. “Sadly, that particular trick was the only one I was ever capable of learning.” Cleopatra’s voice turned sly. “Besides, of course, the infallible love spell. Which I’ve already taught both of my daughters.” Her lips quirked up in a wicked little smile, and both girls flushed red to their ears. Cleopatra then returned her cool gaze to the mage-priest. “Little enough reason for my dear Caesar to have repealed the Lex Cornelius, for my sake. But a good thing that he did, now that our daughter’s powers have been revealed.” She paused. “My point is, however, that the royal mysteries have never been confined within the heavy walls of the temples. If you cannot work with us, then I will send for a priestess of Isis with more power than I possess, to serve as her tutor.”