by Karen Essex
“In that case, My Lady,” replied the Prime Minister, “it will be interesting to see which of you leaves first.”
Kleopatra had successfully avoided a ceremony, but custom and Auletes’ will demanded the union of brother and sister. The estranged siblings were named husband and wife in all the official documents, and also, in accordance with the will, added “Lovers of Their Father” to their lengthy formal titles. After the documents were signed, Ptolemy the Elder, now King Ptolemy XIII, wielding a ceremonial scepter that he undoubtedly had fished out of the Treasury, leaned across the table and whispered, “May the Immortals bless our bed, dear sister. By the seed of my loins will many Ptolemies spring from your pretty thighs.”
She looked into his eyes and saw Thea—Thea without any of the beauty. Kleopatra moved toward him as if she were going to kiss him. Instead, she hissed in his face, “This is the closest that your half-grown cock will ever get to my thighs, little brother. When it grows to full size, you may use it to pleasure your eunuch. That is what he wants—for me to be dead and for himself to be your queen.”
The boy king slammed his scepter on the table, making a jagged scar in its perfectly polished surface. Kleopatra’s servant, despite many attempts, was never able to entirely erase it.
Kleopatra had the kitchens prepare an array of foods and drinks for the two sons of Marcus Bibulus to sample while she and Hephaestion conducted business with them. It was always a delicate undertaking, entertaining Romans; it was important to appear not only stable, but prosperous. Demonstrating weakness to the Romans was an open invitation for occupation of one’s country. On the other hand, demonstrating wealth was an open invitation for extortion.
“Your Majesty, we thank you for receiving us,” said the elder Bibulus, a soft, portly young man with a serene face.
“And for receiving us so graciously,” chimed the younger brother, taking in the dimension and the details of the great Dionysian reception room. “Our father sends his greetings to you.”
“I regret that I did not come to know the eminent Marcus Bibulus during my stay in Rome. My father and I were sequestered in the suburban villa of Pompey and did not attend many social functions.” Kleopatra wondered if they knew what she knew—that their father, Marcus Bibulus, had been the laughingstock of Rome. He had been Julius Caesar’s co-consul, but was so intimidated by Caesar that he spent his year in office at home. He remained indoors for eight months under the excuse that he needed to search the skies for auspices before he rejoined the government. Bibulus’s cowardly ways spawned the joke that the year had marked the consulship of “Julius” and “Caesar.” But ineptitude did not seem to do harm to one’s political career; now Bibulus was governor of Syria, the lucrative post vacated by Alexandria’s greedy liberator, Gabinius.
“My father’s province is in a state of emergency, Your Majesty, and he requires your aid,” said the elder Bibulus Though he addressed Kleopatra he faced himself to Hephaestion, who redirected his gaze toward the queen. Kleopatra wondered if the Roman had a difficult time conducting diplomatic relations with a woman, since no Roman female partook in government. No matter. He must learn. She cocked her head to the side, indicating interest in his speech.
“The Parthians have refused to leave the Syrian borders. We have tried to push them into Mesopotamia, but they will not budge. There is no Roman army in the region, so we are all in grave danger. The Parthians, as Your Majesty well knows, are unpredictable and warlike.”
The younger brother, perhaps more sensitive to the power arrangements in the room, explained to Kleopatra that if the Romans lost the Syrian province to Parthia, all Rome’s allies, including Egypt, would be in danger. “My father requests that you send him the militia left here by Gabinius to keep peace in Alexandria. Your kingdom is presently at rest, while our province is threatened. We know the army is still intact, and it’s a Roman-trained fighting force. Can we count on your generosity?”
Kleopatra and Hephaestion exchanged quick glances. The Gabinians, despite the settlements made by Auletes, were still a menacing presence in Alexandria. The greedy mercenaries had quieted their reign of terror upon the citizens, but had not entirely transcended their brutish ways. They made the occasional unreasonable demand upon the throne, and the throne, intimidated by the presence of an army force that bore no loyalty to the ruling order, inevitably acquiesced. Hephaestion knew that Kleopatra would love to be rid of them altogether. But this was also an opportunity to ingratiate oneself to Rome, a chance to alter the balance sheet in terms of who owed what to whom. It would not do to reveal that Rome’s request was a boon, rather than a burden, to Egypt.
The queen and her adviser knew each other’s minds and said nothing.
“Will you honor the request of my father, and do this favor for the people of Rome?” asked the elder. Kleopatra could see that he was trying to subdue the arrogance in his voice but without much success. The younger was the better diplomat, waiting with a pleasant look on his face, confident that their demands would be met. Kleopatra did not want them to get their way by coercion. Far better that she appear generous and beneficent.
“Prime Minister, do you see any reason why we cannot fulfill the request of our friends? Do speak up if you have any qualms. The sons of Bibulus are our friends and will certainly understand if there is any reason we cannot accommodate them.”
“Your Majesty,” he said in a tone that she alone recognized as overly earnest and concerned. “We have had peace in the kingdom since your father settled with the Gabinians and ensured their loyalty to the throne. While we are not presently in conflict, I worry that the absence of the Gabinian army might endanger our security.”
Kleopatra accepted this news with an affected slump of posture, as if someone had thrown a heavy weight into her lap. She remained silent, pensive. She cast her eyes into the air.
“Your Majesty,” said the younger Bibulus in a gentle voice. “I do not speak for the Roman senate, nor for Pompey, nor for the present consuls. But I do speak for my father, who is an honorable man. Should any harm come to you in the absence of your army, my father will immediately come to your aid. He will vindicate you with all the resources of Rome that are at his disposal. And I assure you there are many. By honoring our request, you, like your father before you, will declare to the world that you are a Friend and Ally of the Roman people. Rome does not forget her friends.”
How naive was this seemingly thoughtful man? Probably five years older than she, he was still spouting the idealistic rhetoric of his youth. Did he honestly believe what he said? Or was he better practiced at the art of diplomacy than she thought?
The queen looked imploringly at her Prime Minister. “How can we refuse these men in their hour of need?”
“If Your Majesty understands the risks involved and still wishes to proceed, then I shall have to be content and hope for the best,” said Hephaestion.
“Go directly to the commanding officer and settle the matter. I will send word that they are to obey your instructions and accompany you immediately to Syria in whatever number and order you demand.”
The men bowed to Kleopatra, and then spent the better part of an hour talking to her about the latest intrigues in Rome, and the threat of the upstart Julius Caesar, who had amassed far too big an army to remain benevolent. The elder son spilled his wine on the mosaic face of Dionysus as he recalled the insults his noble father had suffered during his year as Caesar’s co-consul. Kleopatra said very little of substance, instead turning the conversation to more benign subjects such as the number of seats in the new theater Pompey had recently erected in the city and the quality of the most recent productions. They argued gently about whether Roman actors had the grand stage presence of their Greek counterparts. It was an altogether festive end to the execution of a grave matter.
The next morning, Kleopatra awoke to the news that the sons of Bibulus were dead, murdered by two commanding officers who made it very plain that they had no intention of going
back to Syria. They were very fond of the life they led in Alexandria, married to beautiful women, enjoying their salaries and doing little to earn them. Why should they march to Parthia to defend a Roman stronghold? Many of the Gabinian soldiers were Syrians, happy to see Bibulus attacked. When the brothers protested that the queen herself had made the order, the officers seized them and slit their throats.
Enraged at the soldiers’ arrogance and disobedience, Kleopatra ordered an investigation into the murders. Fearless of her wrath, the two responsible parties admitted to the killings. Without delay, she ordered them arrested, enchained, and sent them to Bibulus for punishment. She told Hephaestion that she was unwilling to sacrifice relations with Rome over two hotheaded mercenaries.
“And what will the Regency Council have to say about these independent actions of yours?” the Prime Minister asked.
“It is plain that sooner or later a dispute between the Regency Council and myself is bound to erupt,” she said curtly.
“You seem determined to make that happen,” he answered.
“When it does happen, Rome will be the arbitrator between us. The senate might send Bibulus himself to settle the matter. Have you thought of that? He is the Roman official in closest proximity to us. It would not serve me to let those who killed his sons go unpunished.” Kleopatra had thought the matter through. Hephaestion was not a man to take risks, so she had to override his advice when she thought it necessary. “Besides, those officers had no authority to murder anyone. How dare they? I thought it wise to make an example of them to the others.”
“I believe we are about to get to the bottom of this entire incident,” Hephaestion said ominously. “The Regency Council is waiting to see you.”
“Must I?”
“Cooperation may behoove you.”
“Very well. Send them in.”
Pothinus entered, followed by Theodotus, King Ptolemy XIII, who had just passed his twelfth birthday, and Princess Arsinoe, who wore a bracelet on her upper arm that she had inherited from Berenike—a silver snake with an emerald for an eye. What audacity, to wear the heirloom of a traitor into the queen’s office. The girl was, however, a striking beauty, resembling Thea in face and in the voluptuousness of her body.
Ptolemy the Elder wore a formal robe that should have been reserved for a religious ceremony. Kleopatra wondered how far the eunuch went in allowing the boy to play at his role of king. Short and pudgy, with small eyes and an excessively round middle, already he had a second chin. With none of his mother’s good looks, he resembled his father to a large degree, though without the artistic bent that had made Auletes’ quirky personality almost appealing.
“Greetings to you my sister and wife,” he said, sneering. The two had not spoken to each other in months. Now he looked at her in what she could only interpret as bitter resentment, though a new smug quality had also settled into his demeanor.
“To what do we owe this visit?” Kleopatra asked. She would have liked to replace the word “visit” with “intrusion,” for that was how she felt.
“Regarding the request of the sons of Bibulus for the Gabinian soldiers; regarding the acquiescence of the queen to that request; and regarding the punishment of the officers allegedly responsible for the unfortunate slaying of the brothers. We are here to protest that we were neither informed nor consulted by you.” Pothinus made the complaint without taking a breath. He was well rehearsed. Theodotus nodded his head as Pothinus spoke.
Hephaestion was quick to answer the charge. “Her Majesty did not think it an issue grave enough to call a formal committee to discuss. After all, she did not—could not—foresee the consequences of sending the Romans to meet with the officers.”
Pothinus ignored him. “We are here to inform you of the serious consequences of your actions that have grown to proportions of which you remain unaware.”
“Is that so?” Kleopatra answered before Hephaestion could again intercede. Really, she had no patience for this castrated fop. And she did not at all like Arsinoe’s icy stare. “Why is my sister present in this meeting? The princess holds no official office, does she, or am I once again misinformed about the hierarchy of my government?”
The young king raised his robed arm, railing at Kleopatra. He blurted, “She is here because she is my true sister and wife and companion. More than you.”
“My dear brother, if necessary, I shall produce the contract of our marriage, signed by everyone in this room save your other sister. Have you forgotten the terms of our father’s will?”
“Have you?” he screamed. “You think you’re so smart.”
Pothinus put a hand on his shoulder to quiet him. Theodotus pursed his lips in disapproval of the outburst. Arsinoe fiddled with a lock of her hair as if undisturbed by Kleopatra’s challenge to her presence. What do they know that I do not? Kleopatra wondered. And what does the little imbecile mean by “his true wife and companion”?
“Your Majesty, I am afraid we are here to put you under house arrest,” Pothinus said, nonchalant, as if he were announcing the most trifling matter.
“What?” Kleopatra jumped to her feet.
“How dare you talk to the queen in this manner?” said Hephaestion. “I am calling for the guard.” He moved to the door, opened it, and two sentries walked in.
“Please sit down, sir,” said one of them politely to the Prime Minister. “I do not wish to harm you.”
“What is going on here?” demanded Kleopatra. She clutched the rim of her desk, suddenly the only solid thing within her grasp.
“Do sit down, Your Majesty,” Pothinus said. “There is no need for a display of emotion. We must do this for your own good. You took it upon yourself to promise the soldiers to the Romans. You really should have called a formal committee. That much should be obvious to you by now.”
“You are a puppet of the Roman mongrels, just like Father!” cried Ptolemy. “He sold us to the Romans, and you intend to do the same. Well I won’t let you.”
This time, Arsinoe put her arm around her brother. “We won’t let you,” she said.
A fury rose in Kleopatra that she wished she could squelch. She could not think clearly. She could not think at all. The blood had left her body and was pounding in her head. Her hands went cold. She tried to get up again, but did not think she would be able to stand.
Hephaestion addressed the guards. “I demand to be told by what authority you are here. This is your queen. You will be punished severely for your actions here today.”
“No sir, we are here to protect the queen,” answered the man. “The Gabinian soldiers are at the gates of the palace demanding to see the queen. They are furious that the queen sent their officers to Syria for punishment. They are threatening to raze the palace and burn the city. We are here to ensure that no harm comes to the queen or to her supporters.”
“As I said, there is no need for hysteria,” Pothinus said. “Our actions here today are in the best interests of the queen.”
“The best interests of everyone,” echoed Theodotus. “At this moment, Achillas is negotiating with the Gabinians to calm them.”
“You are just like our father, aren’t you?” said Ptolemy. “The people stood before the gates demanding his resignation, and now they do the same for you.”
“And who put them there, you little fool?” she retorted. “Can you not see the handiwork of your cunning associates? You are the puppet, my brother, and your master will be your demise.” Kleopatra looked at Pothinus, wishing she could slap the cinnamon paint off his cheek.
“Your Majesty,” said Pothinus, rising. “You shall be confined to your quarters in the palace until the Regency Council determines that it is safe for you to once again have your freedom. We cannot allow anything to happen to the queen, can we?”
“You are a fool, Pothinus,” she said, standing too. “I shall bring you down. I swear it on the memory of my beloved father. He is betrayed by his children even in death.” She looked at her brother and sister. “G
et out,” she said.
“We are going,” Pothinus replied, gathering his robes about him, wrapping himself in the starched floral linen as if it were his armor. “We are going, but you are not. The soldiers will be at your door to intercept you, should you try to disobey.”
“Just let the soldiers have her!” shrieked Ptolemy, his fleshy young body shaking just like his father’s used to do when he was angry. Arsinoe laughed.
“Come, Your Majesties,” said Pothinus, putting a protective arm around each child. “Let us leave the queen to her own meditations.”
Kleopatra turned her back on them and did not move until she heard the door slam. When she turned around again, the room was empty but for Hephaestion, who sat glumly in his chair, and two sentries, gleaming swords drawn, who blocked her exit.
TWENTY-ONE
He was always tired, yet he rarely felt the need for rest. Caesar pondered this paradox as he stared into the narrow river, swollen to dangerous levels by two days of ceaseless rain. The red, muddy water rushed by him, sweeping time and history past his heavy, bloodshot eyes. He thought of the Greek philosopher Herakleitos, who said that one could never step into the same river twice. If Caesar crossed the Rubicon, neither the river, nor Caesar, nor any of his men, nor Rome herself, would ever be the same.
In minutes, he and his men could be on the other side in Italy, a hostile faction touching home soil. He found it amusing that he was a quarter of a mile and five minutes from waging war on his own country. Would he do it? Would he cross the ever-changing river, leaving behind, once and for all, the world as it presently was known?
Though he was in the company of five thousand men, he felt alone. He was fifty-one years old, older than the oldest of his soldiers. He did not wish to wage war, particularly against his own people, but what choice had they given him? They had trifled with him, rejecting his numerous reasonable offers. The senate had recalled two of his legions—allegedly to join Pompey in a campaign against Parthia—and as a sign of his good faith, Caesar had relinquished them. But Pompey did not leave for the east. He remained in Rome, retraining Caesar’s men and keeping them in the city, where they might do Caesar harm if he obeyed the senate, laid down his command, and entered Rome as a private citizen.
