Kleopatra (16 page)

“Congratulations.”

“I’ve already shown it around. Enough people—and our Cato is one of them—think it grounds not only for punishment, but for
annexation of Cyprus. Obviously the king can’t be trusted, so he must be controlled. Of course, Cyprus comes with a large
treasury.”

“Cyprus is an Egyptian territory. The king of Cyprus is brother, or half brother, to the king of Egypt,” Caesar replied.

“So what?”

“So you have managed to get support for the annexation of Cyprus. How does that serve us?”

“The king of Cyprus is rich, rich, rich. And he has beautiful things, darling, jewels, gorgeous plate of silver and gold,
fabulous art. We’ll take it and display it in the Forum. The people will love it.”

“And Marcus Cato? What of him?”

“Who, I ask you, would make a better governor of Cyprus than Cato? I’ve already had it put into his head that he is the only
senator honest enough to inventory the king’s treasury without making himself rich.”

“I see.” Caesar had to admire Clodius. In his own way, he was a genius.

“Who would be more suited to lord over the old hedonist king than that prig, Cato? Oh, what I would give to see him preaching
his tedious Republican morals, chastising the king for his excesses. Jumping between the king and his food, the king and his
wine, the king and his lovers. The king will be out of his mind with Cato, but will be unable to do anything about it. We’ll
have all the king’s money. And Cato will be many miles away, stuck on that lonely island for at least one year, until your
consulship is finished and you’ve taken your post in Cisalpine Gaul.”

“It’s quite beautiful. Quite.”

“It occurred to me during my morning defecation. Tomorrow I shall devote myself to Cicero.”

Cicero was a more delicate issue. “I know you think this crazy, but I have an odd affection for the old man. I don’t want
anything to happen to him just yet.”

“Brother, what could happen?” Clodius giggled. He hugged Caesar so tight he thought he would faint, looked into his face,
winked, and turned on his heels. Gathering his cloak about him, he took himself from the room.

Caesar’s secretaries reappeared, and he turned his attention to the stack of correspondence Pompey had left for him to attend
to. “No one can resist your letters,” Pompey had said sweetly. “Not even Cicero.” Caesar’s persuasive letters were an expedient
means of doing business, cutting down as they did on unnecessary talk and travel.

“Read to me again the letter from the king of Egypt to Pompey,” Caesar said to the scribe who kept his correspondence.

To My Great Friend Gnaeus Pompeius,

I was very sorry to receive your correspondence from Judaea informing me that you hadn’t the troops available to send to my
aid, particularly alter the army, supplies, and money I sent to support your efforts in Judaea. Again I appeal to our long-standing
friendship. The unrest among my people grows. My family is confined to the palace. It is my friendship with my Roman benefactors
that raises the ire of my people. Would it not be possible to send a legion to me to demonstrate to the many factions in the
city of Alexandria that the king can rely on the support and protection of the great Roman Republic and on the personal support
of Pompeius Magnus? I fear that if I do not demonstrate the sanction or Rome, I shall be forced to withdraw from my country,
whereupon factions hostile to the Republic shall take command of the government and the army. As long as I live you have my
loyalty and friendship. I await your reply.

Urgently yours, Auletes

“The poor fellow sounds desperate,” Caesar said thoughtfully. “I believe Pompey
meant
to help him. It’s the very least we can do, particularly since we will be taking Cyprus from him. I am sure he gets a pretty
penny from the Cypriot coffers. Here, let us write to him and allay his fears. Say this:

My dear King Ptolemy,

I am in receipt or your letter to my colleague Pompey, who is currently on his honeymoon with my daughter, Julia, and is indisposed.
I have considered your appeal. You shall have the protection you require from Rome. I shall make certain the senate officially
recognizes you as friend and Ally of the Roman People—a title you have warranted for some time. This decree shall be announced
throughout Rome and all her client kingdoms. However, you do understand that protection is a costly enterprise for which the
Roman treasury must be compensated. Please send to me the amount of six thousand talents. If it is not possible to procure
the amount straightaway, then I can arrange for you to borrow all or part of the sum from my great and trustworthy friend
the banker Gaius Rabirius Postumus at a reasonable rate of interest. If this arrangement is convenient, I will have Rabirius
deposit the money in our accounts immediately. He will draw up the appropriate papers, and all shall be satisfied until you
are able to liquidate the necessary assets to repay the loan. I trust this is a satisfactory and expedient solution to your
urgent concerns. I await your prompt response.

Yours, Gaius Julius Caesar

T
he king was a fool, all right, but he appeared to be a fool who had struck a peculiar negotiation with Fate, a fool who was
protected by the gods simply because he was so foolish.

Meleager meditated upon this unfortunate fact as he received a much-needed massage from his body servant. The servant worked
the muscles on the eunuch’s back while Meleager took deep, exasperated breaths and tried to let his frustrations melt away
into the hands of the large man.

With the strange special protection Auletes must have arranged with the gods, he had escaped the turmoil and thoroughly enjoyed
himself on his hunt. The bastard king had fled the city long enough to gorge himself upon wild antelope, returning fatter
than ever, and to a more peaceful kingdom. When the Vizier informed the leaders of the local
demes
that Auletes had gone on a hunt, the elder spokesman said, “At least he is not feeding himself this week with the public
coffers.”

Upon his return, the king had made a series of new blunders, so serious that Meleager believed the time had come to rid Egypt
of his pitiable rule. Auletes had refused to come to the aid of his brother, the king of Cyprus, when the Romans annexed the
territory and confiscated his treasury, despite letters from Cyprus begging for help.

“Your Majesty, the people do not understand why you do not intervene with Rome on behalf of your brother, King Ptolemy of
Cyprus,” Meleager said. “Cyprus is an Egyptian territory. The stolen money is Egyptian property. Now Egypt will have to negotiate
with the governor Cato for the timber we receive from Cyprus for our ships and for the copper for our coins. Rome bankrupts
us step by step.”

“What can I do? I advised my brother to do what the Romans want him to do—abdicate and join the priesthood of Aphrodite at
Paphos. Paphos is a lovely place and right there on the island of Cyprus, not some ugly rock in a black northern sea. In fact,
the blind poet, Homer, believed that the goddess preferred Paphos to all other places,” the king said with mock enthusiasm.
“It would hardly be an unpleasant retirement.”

As if his cowardice was not disgusting enough, now the king had given the extortionist Caesar six thousand talents—almost
half of the country’s annual income.

“I must pay the money, or I will soon find myself in my brother’s position, with Cato standing at
my
palace door, making a list of
my
treasures to take away to Rome,” the king had said.

“I do not think the people will have much sympathy for Your Majesty’s position,” said Meleager.

“I have saved my country,” Auletes said. “Unlike her neighbors, Egypt is still free.” He dismissed Meleager with a tired wave
of his royal hand.

Meleager discovered that Auletes had borrowed the money from a Roman money lender, Rabirius. To ensure that Rabirius would
be repaid, the Roman senate ensconced a contingent of representatives—“officials”—in Alexandria. The sycophant king set these
men up in lavish villas in the city and gifted them with large quantities of servants, gold plate, jewels, and statuary thieved
from the old Egyptian temples. The Romans repaid the king by wandering the city drunk, abusing the Greek, Jewish, and Egyptian
citizens alike in the name of “Mighty Rome,” and terrorizing Auletes’ court prostitutes with their savage sexual appetites.

Just when Meleager thought the king had forever alienated his subjects, Auletes soothed the people’s anger by declaring a
general amnesty for all those awaiting prosecution. Since the courts in Alexandria, both Greek and Egyptian, were flooded
with civil and criminal cases, he appeased many with this decision.

“I am wiping the slate clean for my people, who I know possess pure hearts,” the king exclaimed in his last public speech.
“Go home! And thank the gods for your good fortune!”

They didn’t thank the gods. They thanked the king. They forgave the king everything—even the matter of the higher taxes they
paid to satisfy the king’s creditors—and went about their daily business, thereby nullifying, at least temporarily, all the
work of the eunuch, the Vizier, and the General. He should have let the mob murder Auletes last year at the Grand Procession.
Now what? Was the king so popular that next year, when Berenike turned eighteen, it would be a chore to bring him down?

The people of Alexandria had no love for Auletes, but they were easily bought. And the king was the kind of man who knew how
to purchase affection. Was that simply human nature? wondered the eunuch. Is man’s integrity inevitably palliated when his
own selfish interests are indulged?

The eunuch turned over so that the servant could massage his feet. It had been a long day. He sighed, releasing himself to
the pressure of the masseur’s hands upon his well-oiled soles.

What to do? Meleager was not a man who took risks unless he was under the direction of the deities. Perhaps in the morning
he would go to the temple and make a sacrifice to the Mother Goddess in an appeal for her guidance.
Give me a sign, Great Mother
, he prayed silently.
Speak your will unto me and it shall be done.

Two girls, one tall and the color of polished mahogany, and the other small and peanut brown, stared at their reflections
in the mirror. They had chosen the djellaba, the loose, drab dress of the Egyptian peasant, as their disguise of the day,
and had selected the most unattractive ones that Kleopatra had hidden in her trunk. Kleopatra grimaced. With her androgynous
child’s body, she looked like a common camel boy, whereas Mohama looked like an African goddess. With an envy that was not
entirely chaste, she had stared at Mohama’s jutting brown breasts before they were covered by the djellaba, wondering if her
own little chest would ever own such imposing twins.

Mohama tied colorful scarves around their heads in the style of the desert people, and replaced Kleopatra’s fine leather shoes
with the thatched, reedy sandals worn by the palace workers. She lifted up Kleopatra’s skirt and strapped a sheathed dagger
onto her thin, childish thigh. She armed herself with two weapons, one tucked inside an underarm sling for easy reach, and
the other in a sheath buckled to her more well-developed and muscled loin.

Leaving Sekkie as a sleeping decoy in Kleopatra’s bed, they scampered down the servants’ stairs in the rear of the palace
and into the great kitchens, ducking under hanging fowl and small game, past the rows of men still washing the breakfast plates
of the royals and their guests, and skipping through the grain pantry, where they stopped to collect baskets for shopping.
With Mohama leading the way and Kleopatra assuming the mien of her humble assistant, they were soon out the back door, where
workers unloaded produce-cars that delivered fresh food daily to the palace. They quickened their pace, not daring to look
back at the indifferent pair of guards from the Royal Macedonian Household Troops who stood at the loading-dock doors.

“Mohama!” one called out with grave authority. The princess’s feet stopped in middle step.

“Wait here,” Mohama said. She sauntered back to the dock to talk to the man, a husky Graeco-Egyptian with a dark beard. Mohama
cocked her head and smiled at the guard, with her hand placed firmly on her right hip. The princess was not accustomed to
seeing her slave act coy with men, though Mohama seemed very practiced at this art. After a brief exchange, ending with a
loud laugh from the guard, Mohama skipped back to the princess.

“Does he know who I am?” asked Kleopatra.

“Of course not. His name is Demonsthenes. He thinks you are my little cousin. He will believe whatever I say.”

“Why is that? Are you so clever?”

“He believes whatever I say because he wants to,” she answered cryptically.

They had no agenda for the day, only the desire to escape the court on a day of perfect weather in a city known throughout
the world for its welcoming climate. Swollen clouds dappled the blue sky, moving with the sea breezes over the late morning
warmth. The smell of jasmine struck their senses as they skipped along the Canopic Way. Free of everything, even her own identity,
Kleopatra pranced alongside Mohama’s long gait, dodging the loping Egyptian women balancing huge earthen jugs of fresh drinking
water on their heads.