Antony and Cleopatra (79 page)

At one stage she began to starve herself, but Octavian put a stop to that by threatening to kill her children. The same old ploy, but it always worked. Cleopatra began to eat again. The war of nerves and will went on between them remorselessly, neither participant showing any sign of giving in.

However, Octavian’s intransigence worked more powerfully on Cleopatra than she knew; had she only been able to step back far enough from her predicament, she would have seen that Octavian didn’t dare kill her children, all very much underage. Perhaps it was her conviction that Caesarion had succeeded in escaping that blinded her; but whatever the reason, she continued to be convinced that her children stood in peril.

Then, as Sextilis wore down toward its end and September loomed with the threat of equinoctial gales, Octavian sought out Cleopatra in her quarters.

She was lying listlessly on a couch, the scratches, bruises, and other relics of her grief at Antony’s death healed. When he entered she opened her eyes, stared, turned her head away.

“Go,” Octavian said curtly to Charmian and Iras.

“Yes, go,” said Cleopatra.

He drew up a chair beside the couch and sat, his eyes busy; several busts of Divus Julius dotted the room, and one splendid bust of Caesarion, a likeness taken not long before he died, for it was more man than youth.

“Like Caesar, isn’t he?” she asked, following his gaze.

“Yes, very.”

“Better to keep him in this part of the world, safely away from Rome,” she said, voice at its most melodious. “His father always intended that his destiny be in Egypt—it was I who took it upon myself to expand his horizons, not knowing that he had no wish for empire. He’ll never be a danger to you, Octavianus—he is happy to rule Egypt as your client-king. The best way you can safeguard your own interests in Egypt is to put him on both thrones and ban all Romans from entering the country. He will see to it that you have whatever you want—gold, grain, tribute, paper, linen.” She sighed and stretched a little, conscious of her pain. “No one in Rome need even know that Caesarion exists.”

His eyes turned from the bust to her face.

Oh, I had forgotten how beautiful his eyes! she thought—as much silver as grey, so filled with light, and rimmed with such thick, long, crystal lashes. Why then do they never give away his thoughts? Any more than his face does. A lovely face, reminiscent of Caesar’s, but not angular, the shape of the bones beneath more secretive. And, unlike Caesar, he is going to keep that mop of golden hair.

“Caesarion is dead.” He repeated it: “Caesarion is dead.”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes went to his and locked there, still as a stagnant pond and gone a greenish brown; the color emptied out of her face from hairline to neckline in a flash, leaving the beautiful skin grey-white.

“He came to see me while I was marching up the Alexandria road from Memphis, mounted on a camel, with two elderly companions. Head full of ideas that he could persuade me to spare you and the dual kingdom. So young! So deluded about the honorableness of men! So sure he could convince me. He told me that you’d sent him away, that he was supposed to sail from Berenice to India. And as I had already located the Treasure of the Ptolemies—yes, lady, Caesar betrayed you and told me how to find it before he died—I didn’t need to torture its whereabouts out of him. Not that he would have told me, no matter how extreme the torture. A very brave young man, I had no trouble seeing that. However, he could not be permitted to live. One Caesar at a time is enough, and I am that Caesar. I killed him myself and buried him alongside the Memphis road in an unmarked grave.” He twisted the knife. “His body was wrapped in a carpet.” Then he fumbled in the purse at his belt and handed her something. “His ring, but not to keep. It belongs to me now.”

“You murdered Caesar’s
son
?”

“With regret, but yes. He was my cousin, I have blood guilt. But I am prepared to live with the nightmares.”

Her body writhed, shuddered. “Is it enjoyment in witnessing my pain makes you say these things to me? Or is it policy?”

“Policy, of course. In the flesh you’re a damnable nuisance to me, Queen of Beasts. You’d be dead, except that I cannot be seen to have had anything to do with your death—very difficult!”

“You don’t want me for your triumph?”

“
Edepol
, no! If you looked like an Amazon I’d happily make you walk in it, but not looking like an abused, half-starved kitten.”

“What about the other young men? Antyllus? Curio?”

“Put to death, along with Canidius, Cassius Parmensis, and Decimus Turullius. I spared Cinna—he’s a nothing.”

The tears were rolling down her face. “And what of Antonius’s children?” she whispered.

“They’re well. Unharmed. Missing their mother, their father, their big brother. I have told them you’re all dead—let them do their crying now, while seemly.” His gaze moved to a statue of Caesar Divus Julius in the guise of an Egyptian pharaoh—very peculiar. “I am not enjoying this, you know. It gives me no joy to cause you so much suffering. But I am doing it nonetheless.
I
am Caesar’s heir! And I intend to rule the world of Our Sea from end to end and side to side. Not as a king or even as a dictator, but as a simple senator endowed with
all
the powers of the tribunes of the plebs.
So right!
It will take a Roman to rule the world as it should be ruled. Someone who enjoys not the power, but the
job
.”

“Power is a ruler’s prerogative,” she said, not comprehending.

“Nonsense! Power is like money—a tool. You’re fools, you oriental autocrats. None of you loves the job, the work.”

“You’re taking Egypt.”

“Naturally. Not as a province, swarming with Romans. I need to monitor the Treasure of the Ptolemies properly. In time the people of Egypt—in Alexandria, the Delta, and along Nilus—will come to think of me as they think of you. And I’ll administer Egypt better than you. You frittered this beautiful land of plenty away on war and personal ambition, you spent money on ships and soldiers in the mistaken belief that numbers always win. What wins is work. Plus, Divus Julius would say, organization.”

“How smug you Romans are! You’ll kill my children?”

“Not at all! Instead, I’m going to make Romans out of them. When I sail for Rome they’ll come with me. My sister Octavia will rear them. The loveliest and sweetest of women! I never could forgive that clod Antonius for hurting her.”

“Go away,” she said, turning her back on him.

He was preparing to leave when she spoke again.

“Tell me, Octavianus, would it be possible to send to the country for some fruit?”

“Not if you doctor it with poison,” he said sharply. “I will have every piece of it sampled by your own maids, right at the spot I indicate with my finger. The slightest suggestion that you died of poison, and I’ll be blamed. And don’t get any grandiose ideas! If you try to make it look as if I murdered you, I’ll strangle all three of your remaining children. I mean it! If I’m to be blamed for your death, what matters it if I murder your children?” He thought of something else, and said, “They’re not even very nice children.”

“No poison,” she said. “I have lit upon the one way to die which will absolve you of all blame. It will be clear to the world that I chose the way myself, of my own volition. I will die as Pharaoh of Egypt, fitting and proper.”

“Then you may send for your fruit.”

“One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“I will eat this special fruit in my tomb. You may inspect the manner of my death after it is done. But I insist that you let the embalmer priests finish their work on Antonius and me. Then have the tomb sealed. If you yourself are not in Egypt, it must be done by your deputy.”

“As you wish.”

The bust of Caesarion filled her eyes; no more tears, the time for them was over. My beautiful, beautiful boy! How much you were your father’s son, yet how little. You duped me so cleverly that I had no suspicion of your intentions. Trust
Octavianus
? But you were too naive to see the threat you were to him, too little a Roman. And now you lie in an unmarked grave, no tomb around you, no boat to sail the River of Night, no food or drink, no comfortable bed. Though I think I can forgive Octavianus everything except the carpet. His snide little poke. What he doesn’t know is that his vengeance gave you a sarcophagus of a kind, enough to hold your Ka for a while.

“Send for Cha’em,” she said when Iras and Charmian came in.

He had always had the ageless look of a priest of Ptah, this chief of the order exiled from his precinct to serve Pharaoh, but these days he wore something of the air of a mummy.

“I don’t need to tell you that Caesarion is dead.”

“No, Daughter of Ra. The day you queried me I saw that he would live only until his eighteenth year.”

“They wrapped him up and buried him alongside the Memphis road where there should be some signs that the army paused. Of course now you will be returning to Ptah’s precinct, shepherding your carts and barrows and laden donkeys. Find him, Cha’em, and hide him inside the mummy of a bull. They won’t detain you long if they detain you at all. Take him to Memphis for a secret entombment. We will beat Octavianus yet. When I am in the Realm of the Dead, I must see my son in all his glory.”

“It shall be done,” said Cha’em.

Charmian and Iras were weeping. Cleopatra let them have their cry, then waved them to silence. “Be quiet! The time draws near, I need certain things done. Have Apollodorus send for a basket of the sacred figs.
Complete
. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Majesty,” Iras whispered.

“What clothes will you wear?” Charmian asked.

“The Double Crown. My best collar, girdle, and bracelets. The pleated white dress with the beaded coat I wore for Caesar years ago. No shoes. Henna my hands and feet. Give all of it to the priests against the day when they put me in my sarcophagus. My beloved Antonius’s dress armor they have already, the set he wore when he crowned my children.”

“The children?” Iras asked, reminded. “What of them?”

“Going to Rome to live with Octavia. I don’t envy her.”

Charmian smiled through her tears. “Not when it comes to Philadelphus! I wonder if he’s kicked Octavianus’s shins?”

“Probably.”

“Oh, madam!” Charmian cried, at a loss. “It was never meant to end like this!”

“Nor would it, had I not encountered Octavianus. The blood of Gaius Julius Caesar is very strong. Now leave me.”

One is supposed, thought Cleopatra, wandering the room yet keeping her gaze on the bust of Caesarion, to think of one’s whole life at this moment, but I do not want to. I can only think of Caesarion, his fluffy gold head against my breast as he took in my milk with big, long gulps. Caesarion, playing with his wooden Trojan horse—he knew the name of every one of the fifty dolls in its belly. Caesarion, determined to have his entitlements as Pharaoh. Caesarion, lifting up his arms to his father. Caesarion, laughing with Antonius. Always and forever, Caesarion.

Oh, but I am glad it’s over! I cannot bear to walk this vale of tears a moment longer. The mistakes, the griefs, the shocks, the struggles. Widowhood. And for what? A son I didn’t understand, two men I didn’t understand. Yes, life is a vale of tears. I am so very grateful for the chance to quit it on my own terms.

The basket of figs came with a note from Cha’em that said everything had been done as she commanded, that Horus would greet her when she came, that Ptah himself had furnished the instrument.

She bathed scrupulously, shrugged on a plain dress, walked with Charmian and Iras to her tomb. Birds sang in a new dawn, the scented breeze of Alexandria blew gently.

A kiss for Iras, a kiss for Charmian; Cleopatra shed her robe and stood naked.

When she lifted the lid on the basket of figs they stirred as the immense king cobra cruised the confines of his prison. There! Now! Cleopatra took his body in both her hands just below his flaring hood as he surged rearing out of the basket, and offered him her breasts. He struck with an audible thud, a blow so powerful that she staggered, dropped him. He writhed away immediately to hide in a dark corner; eventually he found his way out through a conduit.

Charmian and Iras sat with her while she died, not a long process, but an agonizing one. Rigors, convulsions, a restless coma. Her dying done, the two women set about their own.

From the shadows the embalmer priests came forward to take Pharaoh’s body and stretch it upon a bared table. The knife with which they made the incision in her flank was obsidian; through the rent they removed liver, stomach, lungs, and intestines. Each was washed, rolled, and stuffed with crushed herbs and spices save for frankincense, forbidden, then placed in a canopic jar amid natron and resin. The brain would come later, after the Roman conqueror paid his visit.

By the time he came in with Proculeius and Cornelius Gallus, she was covered in mounds of natron save for her chest and head; they knew the Romans wanted to see how she had died.

“Ye gods, look at the size of the fang punctures!” Octavian said, pointing to them. Then, to the chief embalmer: “Where did you put her heart? I should like to see her heart.”

“The heart is not removed, Great One, nor the kidneys,” said the man, bowing low.

“She doesn’t even look human.”

Octavian was clearly unaffected, but Proculeius went pale, excused himself, and left.

“Things shrink when the life goes out of them,” said Gallus. “I know she was a tiny woman, but now she’s like a child.”

“Barbaric!” Octavian walked out.

He was vastly relieved, and delighted at her solution to their dilemma: a snake! Perfect! Proculeius and Gallus had seen the fang marks, would publicly attest to the manner of Cleopatra’s death. What a monster the thing must be! he thought. I wish I had seen it, preferably with a sword in my hand.