Cleopatra's Heir

by Gillian Bradshaw

  The attendant with the oil flask dropped it. It shattered loudly on the stone, spattering the steps and the wall with thick oil and releasing a reek of attar of roses. The attendant tried to run backwards, and sat down heavily on the steps. Caesarion rushed forward, hoping he could somehow get past before the man found his feet again.

  “Nooo!” screamed Rhodon—a shriek so appalling that Caesarion stopped in shock. His tutor fell to his knees, wringing his hands. “I didn’t mean to,” he gasped. “I swear I didn’t, but you rushed straight at the spear. What was I supposed to do? I only meant to hold you there until the Romans could come. It was the emperor’s order, not mine!” His teeth were chattering. “Go away; please go away! O Herakles, please, go away!”

  He was kneeling in front of the steps. “Get out of my way,” Caesarion said reasonably, “and I will.”

  Rhodon scrambled to his feet and backed away into the garden, his eyes fixed on Caesarion with a look of glazed horror. Caesarion hurried past him, then was forced to stop. The two attendants, side by side on the steps, blocked his way. They were both familiar faces, two of Rhodon’s favorite slaves; they both clearly recognized Caesarion, and were apparently too frightened even to move out of the path of his vengeful ghost. Caesarion hesitated—and heard Rhodon stir behind him. He looked around quickly, and saw that Rhodon’s eyes, no longer glazed, had registered the basket Caesarion was still carrying over one arm.

  “You’re alive,” said Rhodon incredulously.

  Caesarion dropped the basket, whirled on his betrayer, and hit him hard in the face. The blow was hard enough to hurt his hand, and felt quite extraordinarily satisfying.

  Rhodon fell backward, cracked his head against the garden wall, and slipped down it into a heap. Caesarion went after him, kicked at him wildly, felt his foot connect. Rhodon, his hands clasped over his face, uttered a muffled scream for help. Caesarion kicked him again. One of the slaves came up behind and grabbed his arm. He elbowed the man in the ribs, hard, hooked a leg round his shin, pushed him over, turned—and ran straight into the second slave. The slave threw an arm around his neck, trying to bend him over in a headlock. He caught the man round the waist, another wrestling hold, dropped to his knees, and threw his opponent over his shoulder.

  But now the first slave was up again, flinging himself back into the fight. There was a brief, hot, panicky tussle, and then Caesarion found himself pinned panting on the pavement, a knee in his back and his right arm bent up against his shoulder blade. He struck the ground furiously with his free hand.

  “How can you possibly be alive?” Rhodon’s voice demanded from above him.

  He craned his neck. Rhodon was on his feet again, braced against the garden wall. His nose was streaming blood, which was thick in his beard and dripping over the front of his dark tunic, and there were dust and dead leaves in his hair. He was shaking visibly.

  “You bugger-arsed whore!” Caesarion said thickly. “Isn’t killing me once enough?”

  Rhodon pushed himself away from the wall, knelt down slowly by Caesarion’s head. Blood from his nose dripped on the stone before Caesarion’s eyes. “The spear went right into you,” he said faintly. “Zeus, I couldn’t pull it out! And then the tent caught fire, and I dragged you out of it, with the spear waggling about in the air. You weren’t breathing, I swear you weren’t. And Avitus pulled the spear out, and stabbed it in again, to see if you were dead, and you were. How can you possibly be alive?” He reached out and touched Caesarion’s cheek, jerked his hand back again as Caesarion flinched convulsively.

  He looked at the blood on the ground, then pressed the back of his wrist against the stream from his nose. “You had a seizure, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice muffled but growing a little steadier. “I knew you did, when the spear went in—but I thought it was because you were dying. Zeus, we burned you, though! I watched the pyre burn!”

  “You had the tent awning over it,” Caesarion told him. “You didn’t lift it to see if I was still there, did you?”

  Rhodon stared at him, his hand still pressed to his nose, his keen dark eyes oppressed with memory. “No,” he said at last. “No. They’d already displayed the body to the whole camp. Nobody wanted to watch it burn. No one was happy about it, anyway. I know I wasn’t. Zeus!” He sat back on his heels. He wiped at his nose vaguely, then pinched the bridge of it to stop the bleeding. “All this time, I thought I killed you. No one has wanted anything to do with me, because I killed you. My mistress and children are spat at in the street, because I killed you—and here you are, alive!”

  “You betrayed me,” Caesarion said bitterly. “You swore an oath to me, to my mother, to my house, and you broke it. You meant me to die. You think people are going to think better of you because you made a mistake the first time, and had to come back for a second try?”

  “No,” whispered Rhodon. His face was still white, marked with blood in a ghastly mask. He glanced at the slave who had Caesarion pinned and ordered, “Let him up.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, and then the slave let go of Caesarion’s arm and got off. Caesarion pulled himself onto hands and knees. He glanced toward the steps, and saw that both slaves were still in the way. His side was hurting from the tussle, and his wrist throbbed. He couldn’t escape, and had no appetite for another fight. He sank back onto his heels and examined his sore wrist. The scab was cracked.

  “What’s that?” Rhodon wanted to know.

  Caesarion looked across at him sullenly. “I tried to kill myself when I heard that my mother was dead,” he said, lowering the wrist again. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Rhodon replied. “What are you doing here? Why did you come back to Alexandria?”

  “There was nowhere else to go. I went to Berenike, but the Romans had taken the Nemesis. I thought if I came back perhaps I could help my mother—or at least Philadelphus.”

  “Philadelphus?”

  “I always liked Philadelphus. I thought the twins would probably be heavily guarded, but I might be able to get to Philadelphus. I thought perhaps someone would help me, that I could get him out, and get away, and live quietly with him … somewhere where people don’t know us.” He met Rhodon’s eyes. “You think I came here to raise a rebellion? I’m not that stupid. Everyone who mattered has already either betrayed my mother or surrendered. If they wouldn’t fight for Marcus Antonius and my mother, they certainly won’t fight for me.”

  “Who have you approached?” asked Rhodon.

  Caesarion sighed. That was the question which would interest a great many people, and which might, if the answer was not believed, lead back to engulf the Soteria and everyone on it. “I have approached no one,” he declared firmly. “I arrived in the city about noon today, and I came here to think about how to proceed. I traveled on a common sailing barge with people who had no idea who I am. Give it a moment’s thought, and you’ll see that I’ve had no time to do anything. It’s a long way from Berenike, and I’ve been ill—thanks to you. It was a deep wound. Do you know what happened to Philadelphus? Is he alive?”

  “Alive, unharmed, and in the palace,” Rhodon said at once. “Under close guard.”

  Caesarion closed his eyes a moment, trying to smother the passion of relief.

  “I believe that he and the twins have their own servants with them,” Rhodon went on.

  “His own nurse?” Caesarion asked eagerly. The nurse had raised Philadelphus from his infancy, and was in many ways more important to him than his mother. No one would comfort him more.

  “So far as I know. The emperor hasn’t said what he intends to do with the children. When your mother was alive, he threatened her that he would kill them if she committed suicide, but he hasn’t done it, and it’s clear now that he won’t. I don’t think he could, to tell the truth. They’re the children of his brother-in-law Antonius, after all, and he has thousands of former Antonians among his own forces now. There was enough of an uproar over Antyllus, and people accept
that sort of thing when a city falls far more easily than they do a month later.”

  “What happened to Antyllus?” Caesarion asked, with trepidation. Marcus Antonius’ eldest son, by his Roman wife Fulvia, had been about his own age, and they’d often shared lessons and excursions. There’d been a lot of rivalry between them, and they’d disliked one another’s parents and each other, but they’d known one another fairly well.

  “Beheaded,” Rhodon said grimly. “He was betrayed by a tutor as well: Theodoros told the soldiers where he was hiding. He ran into the temple of Caesar, in the hope that that would protect him, but they hauled him out and put him to death.” He paused, then added, “You know that emerald pendant he used to wear, the one he said brought him luck? Theodoros stole it from his body, and the Romans found out. They crucified him.”

  “Crucified him?” Caesarion repeated, more shocked by this than by the execution of Antyllus. Antyllus, after all, was the eldest son of a man who had been the emperor’s rival and who still commanded loyalty among the troops, and he had, like Caesarion, officially come of age. It was understandable that Octavian would order his death. Theodoros, though, who’d tutored Antyllus—and occasionally Caesarion—in rhetoric, was freeborn and an Alexandrian. He should not have suffered the punishment of slaves.

  “Crucified him,” Rhodon confirmed, with a ghastly smile. “Nobody likes a traitor.”

  “That surprises you?” Caesarion asked sarcastically.

  “I never expected to be liked for it,” Rhodon replied, trying to wipe his nose. “Though, I have to admit, it’s been much worse than I expected.”

  “So why did you do it?” Caesarion asked, the angry bewilderment he’d felt when he first realized what Rhodon had done to him stinging afresh.

  “In the first place, because I have a woman and children in Alexandria,” Rhodon replied, with that direct honesty that Caesarion had always liked. “I didn’t want to abandon them and run off into exile. In the second place … the war was lost. Everyone knew that. Yet you had every intention of raising an army and continuing the fight. More lives lost, more wounded, more money spent on mercenaries in a land which was already impoverished. All that stood in the way of peace was one emotionally unstable epileptic boy. I thought I was serving the greater good.”

  “What do you mean, ‘emotionally unstable’?” Caesarion demanded hotly.

  “It would be a wonder if you weren’t,” said Rhodon sourly. He got up, went over to the fish pond, and rinsed off his bloodied hand in the water. “On the one hand, expected to behave like a king; on the other, required to be totally obedient.” He wiped his face with his dripping hand and looked round at Caesarion again. “I used to wonder sometimes what you’d be like if you ever came into power. It used to frighten me.”

  Caesarion’s eyes stung. Rhodon had never mentioned this opinion of him before, and he was bewildered to find that he still cared what the man thought. “That is totally unjustified!”

  “Is it? Zeus, your mother used to frighten me, and your father, by all accounts, was a monster. You have, I know, read his own account of the siege of Alesia.”

  He had, and it had shocked him. Caesar had besieged the Gaulish city of Alesia. To save food, the Gaulish leader Vercingetorix had turned all the old people, women, and children out of the city. They had begged Caesar to let them pass through his lines: he had refused. Then, more humbly, they’d begged him to accept them as slaves: he had refused again. He had watched them die of hunger and thirst between the two armies, unmoved and unashamed.

  “That was as much the fault of Vercingetorix as of Caesar,” he said defensively.

  “He was a man without mercy or natural kindness,” said Rhodon quietly. “And your mother was another of the same stamp. How could you learn something neither blood nor nurture would teach you? And the disease you suffer would eat away a sanity far more firmly founded than your own.”

  “This is mercy, is it?” Caesarion demanded sharply. “To insult and revile me when I can’t retaliate and can’t escape? I never did you any harm!”

  Rhodon stared at him blankly for a moment, then wiped his nose again. “You asked me why I did it,” he said. “I was trying to explain.”

  Caesarion got to his feet. “You have explained that you always judged me harshly without telling me what you thought or giving me any opportunity to defend myself. I am repaid: I misjudged you as well. I used to like you.”

  Rhodon winced. “I liked you, too. I didn’t mean you to die.”

  Caesarion snorted in disgust. “You’ve just told me your real opinion of me! You mean that you didn’t want the guilt of having killed me yourself.”

  “No! I hoped the emperor could be persuaded to spare your life.”

  “That was never a possibility,” Caesarion said vehemently. “Never. He would not dare even to parade me in the triumph. Cleopatra—oh yes, the malevolent seductress of Roman virtue humbled at last, a magnificent spectacle; Cleopatra’s children—a pathetic sight for the crowd to coo over; Julius Caesar’s son, in chains behind the chariot of Julius Caesar’s grand-nephewhe would not dare!”

  “They say you’re not Caesar’s son.”

  “I know what they say. They know what the truth is, and they don’t really expect to be believed.”

  “The emperor did consider sparing you. I have it on good authority he did. Areios persuaded him otherwise. ‘It is not good to have too many Caesars,’ he said, misquoting Homer. Areios has great influence with him, and is much in favor.”

  Areios was an Alexandrian philosopher who had studied under the same teachers as Rhodon, spent years at court, failed to obtain the royal appointment he felt he deserved, and departed for Rome to advise Ocatavian on Alexandrian affairs. It was undoubtedly true that he was hostile to the royal house and that he would have advised the emperor accordingly—but the emperor was unlikely to have asked for advice on such a point. “I do not trust that story,” Caesarion said coolly. “Octavian probably put it about to deflect criticism from himself. My death was ordered before he ever reached Egypt, and if you thought otherwise, Rhodon, you deluded yourself. What was it you used to tell me? ‘Wishful thinking is the enemy of truth’?”

  “He’s trying to forge a stable peace,” Rhodon said earnestly. “I do believe that. There have been very few executions.” He paused, then added, “Far fewer than last autumn, when your mother returned from Actium.”

  “I am tired of this,” Caesarion said sharply. “Finish it. What are you going to do? Hand me over to your master, or dispose of me quietly and pretend that it was me in the urn all along?”

  Rhodon glanced vaguely at the urn. “Who is in the urn?”

  “I should imagine it’s a mix of Eumenes, Megasthenes, Heliodoros, and some camel saddles. I was astonished that nobody counted the skulls and came looking for me.”

  Rhodon gave him a startled look. “It was a very hot pyre.” He rubbed his mouth. “I can’t think. I’m not going to kill you. You say that you want to take Philadelphus and go away somewhere where no one knows you. I can’t get Philadelphus. Would you go without him?”

  Caesarion stared at him in silence, unable to grasp what he was saying. Rhodon left the fish pond, came over and stood facing him. “I’m not going to kill you,” he repeated. “I thought I had, and I bitterly regretted it. Telling the Romans—they would not be pleased to discover that a dead king has come back to life: it is altogether too miraculous and would disturb the people. For you to disappear into quiet retirement seems to me the very best thing that I could hope for. I can help you. Will you trust me?”

  Caesarion couldn’t think how to answer. He turned away, went over to the bench under the colonnade, and sat down. “I do not trust you,” he said at last. “I would be a great fool to do so. Anyone else might betray me; you’ve already proved that you will.”

  “I can help you,” Rhodon insisted, urgently now. “There are too many people in this city who know you for you to walk about it in safety. I have been b
ack for ten days now, and I have access to the Romans: I know how people stand with the new order. I know who is still loyal to you. The Romans believe they own me, and don’t care what I do. I can go anywhere, approach anyone. Listen to me, O king! I want to help you. If I wanted to destroy you, I could do so, here and now. You said so yourself. But I want to help you. I beg you, give me the chance!”

  He sounded sincere. He had lied before, of course, and Caesarion had believed him. And yet—was he any more likely to turn traitor than anyone else Caesarion might choose to rely upon? Had anyone remained faithful to the end?

  Rhodon could have had him strangled by now, his body hidden in the garden to be removed under cover of darkness and dumped into the harbor, weighted down with stones. It was, in many ways, the most practical course for Rhodon to take. Instead, Rhodon asked to be allowed to help.

  Rhodon had been tending the tomb. The oil whose thick scent of roses still hung in the heavy air had been intended to refill the lamps on the altar. That argued a genuine remorse, a real desire to atone.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked at last.

  Rhodon crossed the garden in a rush and dropped to a knee beside the bench. “Come back to my house now,” he said urgently. “Stay there. Let me do the rest.”

  He stared at the man’s earnest face. Rhodon’s nose was starting to swell, and there was blood in the beard and under the nostrils. His eyes were eager, full of hope.

  “You will give me a sharp knife,” he said in a low voice. “You will make no effort to take it from me at any time. If I suspect that you are betraying me again, I will use it on you first, if I can, and then on myself. I will not, under any circumstances, be arrested and questioned.”

  Rhodon winced, but said only, “I agree to your condition.”