by Jo Graham
The only one of the party who seemed relaxed was a toddling baby a year younger than Caesarion, who was trying his best to get muddy before the rest of the guests arrived. His mother was chasing him around the garden, her saffron-colored gown already streaked at the hem, but she didn’t seem upset about it. I helped her corner him beside the barren rose hedge.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, as he trampled on my gown leaving muddy footprints. She scooped him up kicking.
“I’m quite used to it,” I said, smiling. “I have charge of Caesarion, so it happens all the time.”
“Ah.” She put her head to the side, reminding me of nothing so much as a clever, dark-eyed little bird. “Then you’ll be one of Cleopatra’s handmaidens, the ones who run things.”
“I’m Charmian,” I said. “And I am grateful for the Queen’s trust, yes.”
“Roman women are a little more subtle about running things,” she said. “I’m Octavia Minor. Marcellus’ wife.” She cocked her head back toward a florid man in a very formal toga who was bending the ear of a fair youth.
“And how are you . . .”
“Caesar’s great-niece,” she said. “Not to be confused with my older sister, the famous wit. She’s the one with the symposia full of poets. I’m the one with the kicking child.” She attempted to right the boy, who was now hanging upside down over her arm.
I laughed. “And what is his name?”
“Another Marcellus,” she said. “I suppose it will be Marcellus First, Second, and Third by the time I’m finished. Admittedly we Romans are not particularly creative in our names. And it does cause a certain degree of confusion, though you can generally tell who someone’s family is even if you’ve no clue who they are.”
The florid Marcellus seemed to be expounding on something at length to the youth, who looked bored.
Octavia shrugged. “He wanted to be early, so now he’s got nobody to talk to except my brother—Octavian, just to be confusing.”
“I’ve heard of him, of course,” I said, putting the pieces together. The young tribune that Emrys had disliked, the one who Caesar compared unfavorably to Agrippa. But surely Agrippa wouldn’t be here! He wasn’t related to Caesar, and his family was on the wrong side of politics. I looked around quickly to see if he had come with his friend, but I didn’t see him.
“Have you?” Octavia smiled. “I suppose you must keep track of it all. And my husband has been here before.”
“Yes,” I said, “I remember.” He had been part of a number of parties of distinguished men, though I did not have the impression he was any particular ally of Caesar’s. I wondered how he had come to be married to Caesar’s great-niece, but perhaps that predated the current political constellation. Octavia looked to be about my age, and could have been married for some years.
We were interrupted by the arrival of Marcus Antonius, who did have a way of filling a room. Fulvia was with him of course, wearing a gown of so saturated a crimson that it might as well have been purple. The cabochon amethysts she wore were also lovely, if a bit much for a small family garden party.
Antonius was expansive, advancing on everyone and greeting them like old friends, a pretty little boy Caesarion’s age on his shoulder.
“Oh yes,” Fulvia was saying to someone, “the baby’s home with his nurse. But I thought that Antyllus could come since it was just an informal little party, and that he could play with Caesarion.”
“Or Marcellus,” Octavia said, going to greet her.
“Of course,” Fulvia said warmly, but I saw her eyes sweeping the garden over Octavia’s shoulder, looking for more important people to talk to. One never wants to be standing alone at these things, but neither does one want to get trapped with someone below one on the ladder.
At that moment the Queen came out, and of course Fulvia dashed off to kiss her and greet her like her oldest friend, while Cleopatra returned her compliments with pretty effusion.
Everyone arrived in a rush then, and there was only one slave taking wraps and cloaks, so I hurried to help her, and then there was a hitch in getting the watered wine poured, so that the gentlemen at least could fortify themselves after coming all of the way across the river. Then Caesar arrived, and there was the usual disarray of a party when everyone is trying to get to the most powerful person in the room without seeming to be doing it. Caesarion won by doing what the others would not and pushing his way among the knees to grab Caesar by the ankles.
Caesar laughed and picked him up. I thought, even from a distance, that the laugh looked genuine. “The boy knows what he wants,” he said. “And he’s not afraid to be rude about getting it.”
“Just like Caesar,” Marcus Antonius said, but I don’t think anyone else found it nearly as funny.
“So,” Marcellus said, lifting his cup in his hand, “when are you planning to retire like Sulla? Isn’t it time you enjoyed life a bit?”
For a moment there was a dreadful pause, and then everyone went right on talking just a little bit too loudly.
Caesar laughed again, but his eyes were hard. “I don’t think I’m ready to be pastured, Marcellus. I’m afraid you won’t put me out to stud just yet!”
The Queen turned to Fulvia, asking her something about an upcoming festival, as though she hadn’t heard. Of course the one person missing at this event was Caesar’s wife. I imagined there was an equivalent function across town at her house on a different day. It seemed to me much less convenient than Pharaoh keeping more than one wife in the same palace. Of course, it was harder for them to poison one another this way.
Marcellus either didn’t know when to back down, or didn’t care. “It’s this Dictator for life business,” he said. “It’s upsetting. Even Sulla knew how to preserve the forms.”
“Yes, he did,” Caesar said. “And in the end he left nothing different than when he began. The moment he was dead the chaos began again. I should be content indeed to retire and to think no further than the span of my years, if I did not have the future to think of.” He cupped Caesarion’s head in his hand, dark hair so like his, the same dark eyes. “But if I am to think of all our children, then it is not enough to walk away today or tomorrow with our work half-finished, with our borders insecure and our economy struggling. No, dear friends.” He shook his head. “Half measures will not do. I am determined to leave Rome on solid footing, so that we can all sleep well in our old age and our spirits rest when we are finished.”
“Well spoken,” Antonius said, and I saw the great-nephew’s eyebrow twitch. Who should be Caesar’s heir if not Caesarion? Octavian? Baby Marcellus, struggling in Octavia’s arms? Antonius himself? “And it is our friendship with Egypt that secures our trade to the east.”
“It has always been the pride of Egypt to be a staunch ally,” Cleopatra said, coming and standing beside Caesar. She did not touch him, but with Caesarion between them the message was unmistakable. “I will be saddened indeed to return to Alexandria in a few weeks, when the sailing season begins.”
“Oh, do you travel?” Octavia put in.
“Before the Kalends of April, I think,” the Queen said. “If the winds are favorable. I have been away from my kingdom for months, and Caesar goes to war.”
At that point some other guests arrived, and the conversation became more general. It was an hour or more before I had a chance to take two breaths in a row in one place.
I found myself under the awning over the terrace. Standing just outside the door, his eyes surveying the crowd, was the tall German bodyguard I remembered from Alexandria. “Sigismund is it?” I asked.
He grinned. “It is.”
I gestured to a passing slave. “Have you had anything to eat? Do you want anything?”
He shrugged. “Maybe just a bite while I’m standing here. I can’t sit down or get too distracted. Not with Caesar in a crowd like this.”
I waved the slave over and Sigismund took some bread with pickled fish off his tray.
“It’s not much of a cro
wd, is it? Not more than thirty people, and half of them family.”
Sigismund shook his head. “It’s not the big crowds we worry about. In the Forum or something like that we’ve got a cordon around Caesar. There are at least four bodyguards and sometimes the Auxiliaries, and the lictors. And Antonius, who’s as good as a bodyguard or two. Besides, it’s hard to carry out an assassination in a big crowd. Too uncertain. No, it’s at home or in private when we really have to sweat.”
“That seems counterintuitive,” I said.
“It’s not easy guarding a man like Caesar,” he said. “What if a man got in over the roof of his own house and jumped down through the impluvium? Or got in through a window when the household is asleep? Or came through these trees here and got up on the terrace?”
I looked toward the edge of the terrace. “It’s twice a man’s height to the bottom of the wall,” I said. “Do you really think someone could climb it?”
“Easily enough,” Sigismund said, “if they knew what they were doing. That’s why we have irregular patrols in the woods between here and the river, down the slope. Aurelianus takes care of that. It’s his ala that’s assigned to it. And even when Caesar’s in his bedroom, there’s always one of us within call.” He gave me another grin. “Professional curiosity? Aurelianus said you’ve taken a knife for the Queen.”
“I did,” I said. “It was a gut thrust, but fortunately I turned and it went in my thigh.”
Sigismund took a bite of the fish paste. “That’s lucky, all right.”
“Are you with him everywhere?” I asked.
“Everywhere,” Sigismund affirmed. “Everywhere except the privy and the Senate house. We’re not allowed in there.”
I felt a chill run up my spine, as though something had echoed that shouldn’t have. “Why not?” I asked.
“Caesar likes his privacy in the privy,” Sigismund said. “Thanks for the bite.” He stepped out into the sun again, his eyes on Caesar.
It was nothing, I thought, a passing uneasiness. And why not? If these were Caesar’s friends, then what did his enemies look like? And where were they at this very moment?
STILL, the uneasiness stayed with me all of the rest of the day, long past the time that Caesarion was returned to his nurse and the guests began to leave. The crowd was definitely thinning when I ducked into the atrium for something and heard voices there.
“I tell you, they do you no good,” Marcus Antonius said heatedly.
I ducked behind a potted cedar.
“I have no desire to be king,” Caesar said mildly. “And if I did, I should have more sense than to say the word. It’s like waving a red flag before a bull to say ‘king’ before Romans.”
“Your men say the word,” Antonius said. “They say it in the tavernas and watering holes of the Subura. Every tavern keeper in town has heard it. The Gauls and Germans say it all the time.”
“Oh, the Gauls and Germans,” Caesar said. “That’s just a mistranslation. They take ‘Imperator’ as king in their own languages, and they don’t have any idea why they shouldn’t say ‘king’ in Latin. They take ‘Dictator’ as something like ‘High King,’ first among a council of tribal leaders. That’s how they see the Senate. They don’t really understand our form of government, you see.”
“They say ‘king,’?” Antonius said, “for whatever reason. And people believe they know something we don’t. If you say something often enough it might as well be true.”
“And what are they saying that you’re warning me of?”
“That you intend to be king. That you intend to make Prince Caesarion your heir and put an Egyptian to rule over them.” Antonius’ voice was hard. “The son of an incestuous foreign whore.”
Contrastingly, Caesar’s voice was almost lazy. “Cleopatra’s marriage with her brother was a marriage in name only.”
“That is not the point!” It sounded as though Antonius were pacing. “It’s strange. The Roman people don’t like anything strange. They don’t like anything that seems decadent and effete and Hellenic. Ever since the Gracchi we’ve had this passion for the common man, for a just plain fellow off the street who hasn’t got any airs. Good, plain soldiers who can’t tell their ass from a bucket. Why, the gods alone can tell us! But there it is.”
“And you do the common soldier better than anyone,” Caesar said. He sounded amused. “You, with philhellene written all over you and an education as good as any man’s.”
“I do,” he said. “And so I know what they say and what I hear. It’s jealousy, plain and simple.”
“And fear,” Caesar said. His voice was thoughtful and tempered. “They think we’re still some collection of mud huts about to be overrun by anyone who wants to. They have no conception of the real political situation. They act as though this were the First Punic War.”
“And Carthage must be destroyed,” Antonius quoted darkly.
“Carthage was destroyed generations ago,” Caesar said. “And there is no real power in the world that can possibly challenge Rome. Yes, there are tribes on the Rhine that must be kept in check, and it’s possible that some new Pontine leader might emerge, or even that the Parthians might make common cause with Liaka Kusulaka, or one of the other Indian princes. But those things are no threat to Rome. They’re shadow puppets, Marcus.”
“Egypt is no shadow puppet.”
“Egypt is thoroughly neutralized, isn’t it?” Caesar said. “And will be for the foreseeable future, with my son on the throne of Egypt.”
I must have made some sound, for Marcus Antonius struck like a cat, knocking aside the plants I stood behind and grabbing my arm. “Ha!” he said. “Look what I’ve caught! Who do you serve?”
“She serves Cleopatra,” Caesar said. “And we’ve said nothing the Queen does not know. Hail, Charmian.”
“Hail, Caesar,” I said, inclining my head.
Antonius let go of my arm. “I suppose it’s your job to listen in on private conversations.”
“Of course it is,” Caesar said approvingly. “What sort of servant should she be if she didn’t?” He clapped Antonius on the shoulder. “I appreciate your vigilance, Marcus. But you worry too much. Come and make your farewells to the Queen before Fulvia wears her ears off.” He raised an eyebrow at me, and led Antonius away.
IN THE MORNING it seemed to me that Iras looked pale and tired, as though she had not slept much. I caught her eye as we were leaving the first meal of the day. “Are you well?” I asked.
Iras shrugged. “Foul dreams,” she said.
“Me too,” I said.
With one accord we turned and looked after where Cleopatra had gone.
“What did you dream?” I asked.
Iras picked up a scroll from the table, playing idly with the cord that labeled it. She did not look at me. “I dreamed that Caesar was dead.”
A chill ran down my back.
“I saw him lying on his pyre, with a cloak across his body covering everything but his face. His face was composed, like the carving on the lid of a sarcophagus and just that pale. Bled white. Antonius stood behind him, and I could see his face tight with strain. He was giving the funeral oration. And then he pulled back the cloak so that everyone could see all of the stab wounds, dozens of them, awful wounds and then people started screaming, tearing their hair and yelling for blood. . . .” Her voice was intense, but her face was as quiet as that of a dreaming child.
I shivered.
Her face changed, the strangeness in her eyes fading.
“Iras?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You were telling me about Caesar,” I said gently.
She shook her head. “Was I?”
“Yes.” I took her arm carefully. “About your dream.”
She bent her head then. “I hope it means nothing,” she said. “After all, there are always plots, aren’t there? We can hardly rush to Caesar and tell him his life is in danger. It always is.”
“No,” I said slowly. “We
can’t, can we?”
WE WILL SAIL on the twenty-first day of March,” the Queen explained in Latin for the entire household to understand. “Iras, will you make sure our vessel is at Ostia and prepared on that day? Caesar sails for Antioch in Syria two days earlier. We do not want to create confusion by sailing at the same time. And the wind should be fair for Alexandria then.”
“So it should, Gracious Queen,” Iras said. “I will see that we are prepared and our ship provisioned.”
“That will be all,” the Queen said, and the other members of the household began to withdraw, our meeting completed and our instructions given.
I went to the Queen’s side. For a moment her face looked oddly blank. “Are you well?” I whispered.
She nodded. “Just a touch of nausea.” She looked at me sideways, and her mouth twitched in a tiny smile. I would know what she meant, having charge of her linens and counting as I did. Her blood was more than two weeks late.
“Are you sure you will want to sail in three weeks?” I whispered.
She nodded. “The sooner the better, isn’t it? We will be in Alexandria before I am far gone.”
“Around the Kalends of November,” I said, counting the due date in Latin, half-thinking. “Does Caesar know?”
“Not yet. I’ll tell him before he sails.”
“He will be pleased,” I whispered.
“Yes,” she said, sharing a smile with me. “All will be well. Don’t worry so, Charmian.”
“I’m not worried,” I said. “Not at all.” I lifted my chin and embraced my sister.
I DREAMED, and in my dream I walked through an empty palace, down echoing halls lit by guttering torches, by lamps half-spilled on the floor. My footsteps echoed in the corridors. The flames burned straight up, never flickering, never changing.
I turned another corner. There was a bath chamber in blue and white tile, a wide pool full of lapping clean water, with fretted screens about a changing area. One white towel lay abandoned beside the pool. A couch drawn close by still bore the indentation where someone had lain.
