Kleopatra (49 page)

The queen had not dined in the banquet room since the Gabinian uprising, but that evening she was escorted to dinner to give
the illusion to Pompey’s son that all was well in the palace. Cnaeus was not fooled by the little family gathering. Despite
the place given to him between Theodotus and Pothinus, he insisted that “the young queen appears lonely,” and seated himself
next to her.

“What is occupying the mind behind so beautiful a face? Cnaeus wished to know.

Would that she could have told him: Possible exile. Famine. A revolt against her brother. Civil war. Ptolemy against Ptolemy
while Roman fought against Roman.

Kleopatra tried to maintain the flirtatious conversation the Roman wished to engage her in, all the while wondering how long
she would have to spend at dinner before she could slip away to the Prime Minister’s rooms and find out if he had recruited
a small militia to sneak her out of the city.

“Your Majesty, please forgive my insolence, but I must know something,” Cnaeus said, leaning very close to her, looking down
the front of her gown and speaking his warm breath into her ear so that no one might hear. “How does a lovely young queen
endure married life with a little boy husband? I do not understand your customs. I know the Greek affinity for very young
males, but surely a woman, a formidable woman like you, needs a full-grown man in the marriage bed?”

He had all the qualities of his father that had made her blush as a girl. The size, the broad shoulders, the inviting eyes,
the voice that soothed and enchanted. She let his question linger while she wished with all her heart that, at that moment,
she was anyone but the queen of Egypt. She would have linked to forget duty and position and throw herself upon Cnaeus like
the commonest of whores. But it was not to be. She reminded herself that after dark, her only illicit meeting would be with
those who were risking their lives for her sovereignty.

“The marriage of brother to sister has always been the custom of the pharaohs, and my ancestor Ptolemy adopted it to please
the native people. The Egyptians believed the pharaohs to be gods, with deified blood that could not mix with that of ordinary
mortals. It seems strange, I know, but my family has successfully followed the tradition for almost three hundred years. I
believe that when my brother comes of age, we will make many children together and live quite happily.”

She wondered if she sounded convincing. All the while, her mind raced for any possible advantage in aligning with the elder
son of Pompey. Was there any bargain she might seal in lust that might benefit her? It was tempting to use one so close to
a source of power. But she simply could not convince herself Pompey would prevail against the intriguing Julius Caesar, as
much as she desired to lean slightly forward and offer her lips to the glorious-looking man who sat beside her.

She took one more long look into the eyes of Cnaeus and, regretfully, excused herself to her chambers, where Charmion was
packing her cosmetics.

“I want you to reconsider making this arduous trip,” Kleopatra said. “This is no elegant exile at Pompey’s mansion. You and
I both know that you are a lady of refinement with no aptitude for rough travel or outdoor living. We will endure plenty of
both. You will be guaranteed neither comfort nor safety.”

“What?” Charmion said in a low, indignant voice. “I thought you cared for your Charmion. You wish me to stay here and receive
Arsinoe’s knife or Pothinus’s poison?” She rose to her full height, which was not tall, but Charmion’s Greek carriage and
mien made her more formidable than her height.

“I do not want you to stay here, but I will send you somewhere—Greece, for example—until it is safe for us to return to the
city.”

“And who will see to your diet? Who will see to your wardrobe? At a time when you need appear most queenly, do you expect
slaves and soldiers to care for your linens? To curl your hair? After a week without my care, you’d look like a ragged foot
soldier. You’d be frail and thin for want of the proper foods. I know you. I raised you from a girl, remember?” Charmion,
only eleven years older than the nineteen-year-old queen, still assumed the role of the stern mother.

A guard interrupted them to inform the queen that Achillas was outside her chambers, requesting a private audience. She avoided
Charmion’s face so that they would not exchange alarming looks that might alert the guard. She could not think what to do.
To deny him would be to arouse his suspicions. To admit him would pose the danger of being found out. Did he already know
her plan of escape? Had she been betrayed?

“Tell him I shall meet him in the antechamber,” Kleopatra told the guard.

She realized that she had to calm herself, to transport herself, somehow, to a different state of mind, or else her nervousness
would easily give her away. She needed to don a cloak of implacability. She sat quietly and closed her eyes, forgetting even
the presence of Charmion. She pictured herself calm, revealing no thoughts and no emotions. She prayed to the goddess.
Lady of Compassion, let me wear this mask. Let it descend over my body like a sheath. Allow me to project only sobriety where
I feel anxiety. Protect me from the suspicious and I shall continue to honor you now and all the days of my life
.

Still she felt nervous as she entered the room.

Mercifully, Achillas stood alone in the antechamber and not, as she had feared, with a guard to take her away. He wore formal
military dress. Despite the severe attire, he was all perfume, oils, and smile. A beautiful man, no doubt, but so different
from the Roman Cnaeus. Though he was a warrior of the first class, he had a certain Greek delicacy. He had been raised by
his father, a Greek officer, and it was rumored that his mother was an Egyptian prostitute. Seeing him, Kleopatra had the
thought that the Greeks and Egyptians should perhaps intermarry with more frequency, so exotic and lovely were their offspring.
She gave him leave to sit but he remained standing. She sat, and he began to pace, circling her. The effect was disconcerting,
sinister. Finally, he knelt before her.

“Your Majesty, I was very disturbed by your brother’s outburst yesterday.”

“Which outburst was that?” she asked, staring into his thick-lashed eyes.

“His threat to allow the soldiers to defile you. As long as I am in charge of the armed forces of Egypt, no harm shall come
to you by my troops. I believe we should work
together
, you and I,” he said.

She was torn between feigning appreciation for his gallantry and letting him know that she was not fooled. This was a lesson
she was still struggling with: refraining from too quickly revealing her perceptions. What did he want? She said nothing.

“I’ve come to offer you my protection,” he said. “I believe you need it.” Still he remained on one knee, closer to her than
protocol allowed. “You
are
in danger,” he added.

“Not if you have assigned yourself to be my protector,” she answered sweetly. “Then I am perfectly safe, am I not?”

“I see no reason why we cannot consider ourselves partners,” he said.

“What would be my role in this partnership?”

Achillas put his hand on her knee. She stiffened, but made no move. She was not tempted to succumb to this man as she was
with Cnaeus, but she did want to play out this scene so that she would know his intentions.

“To be my
friend
.” It was a carefully considered and articulated word.

“Is my brother your friend?” she asked innocently.

“He is. But you would be a different kind of friend, a more intimate friend.”

She remained detached from Achillas’s seductive eyes, his hand on her knee, his coy smile, his gleaming white teeth that seemed
ready to devour her. She swallowed her fear, calling again on the grace of Isis. These things must not be hurried. She could
not be certain that he was not acting as a covert agent of Pothinus. She must repel him so that he would stay away from her
long enough for her to escape.

“You are proposing that we become lovers. In exchange, you will protect me from my brother giving me to your army as if I
were a slave whore. Is that correct? Instead, you would have the queen of Egypt as
your
whore?”

“I see that Your Majesty is caught by surprise and needs time to think,” he said, standing. For one brief moment, she regretted
not aligning herself with Cnaeus. She could have had him slay this insolent creature. Perhaps she would do it herself when
the time came, after she returned to the city with the army that she intended to raise in the provinces where her brother
and his regents were starving the people. When she rose up against Ptolemy and his monsters, she would remember to kill this
one first.

“I shall come tomorrow night, Kleopatra. May I take your hand?”

“As you wish,” she said. Perhaps if she gave him hope, he would not return until the appointed time, when she would be long
gone.

He took her hand, turned it to face him, and kissed the inside of her palm, working his fingers up her arm until they stroked
the flesh of her interior elbow. Then he put his mouth to it, kissing, sucking, biting. It was not unpleasant to her, though
she did not wish it to be enjoyable. He discerned from the tiny gasp that she allowed to escape from her mouth that she was
favorable to his advances.

“Tomorrow night, then? Will that be enough time for you to make a decision?”

“We shall see,” she replied coyly.

“May I taste your lips?” he asked.

She feigned maidenly fear but did not reply. He leaned toward her face. She did not stop him. Gently he kissed her, letting
his tongue linger on her lips. “Tomorrow, Lady.” She watched his cape float after him as he left.

Charmion rushed in when she heard him leave.

“It appears that men are standing in line to relieve me of this menacing condition of virginity,” Kleopatra said, catching
her breath and projecting more nonchalance than she felt inside. “Little do they know that the god has already done so.”

“He attempted to seduce you?” Charmion asked, incredulous.

“And he is coming back tomorrow evening to complete the act. If I join with him, I will be at his mercy. He will be free to
report my adultery to my brother. If I fail to escape tomorrow, and I refuse him, he will surely find a way to destroy me.”

Kleopatra picked up a hand mirror that Charmion had not yet packed and regarded her face. Her lips had filled out, becoming,
apparently, the kind of lips men would like to kiss. She was nineteen years old, and ready for love, perhaps too ready. She
worried that her desire would eventually overcome her good sense. She must learn more restraint, but she could tell that it
would never come easily.

Kleopatra awoke to the murmuring bass tones of men’s voices. She lay dead still. From the moment she left her bed and proceeded
with this deceit, she would be a rebel, a renegade—a Caesar. Would that she had his reportedly dauntless disposition and indubitable
confidence.

She calculated that it was less than one hour before dawn, the appointed time when the guard outside her chamber would change,
replacing the two sentries with Hephaestion’s men. She heard the rustle of fabric; when her eyes adjusted, she saw that Charmion
was already awake and loading the remainder of their personal belongings into large laundry baskets. Quickly, Kleopatra left
her bed, splashed water on her face, shed her fine silk sleeping gown, and slipped into a simple cotton shift. Without a word,
Charmion put an Egyptian wig over her own head, adjusted it, and then settled one atop the head of the queen. Far from the
mane of virgin girls’ hair she had worn in Thebes, these were cheap horsehair wigs purchased at a stall in the marketplace,
made for those who could afford no better.

The door opened and the guards let in the women who would accompany the queen into exile. Large women, capable of bearing
whatever hardships might be encountered, they hoisted the baskets atop their heads and left. Kleopatra took a final look around
the bedchamber of her childhood, the habitat of all the days of her life. Would she ever see it again? She tried not to think
of all the things she was leaving behind. Why bother with material goods? If she remained, if she perished at the hands of
Pothinus and her brother, these same belongings that she cherished would decorate her burial chamber. She turned her back
on all she knew and walked out of the room.

The halls were dim and silent, the day still hidden behind night’s dark sheath. They walked without lamps, unwilling to risk
awakening the household. A squatting Egyptian hall attendant raised his head. He murmured, “Getting an early start, eh?”

The queen herself answered, in as humble an Egyptian dialect that she could muster. “It is the day I am allowed to visit my
mother, but only after the queen’s laundry is done.”

He smiled knowingly and went back into his predawn musings. Kleopatra’s blood quickened, remembering the days of her adventures
with Mohama, when she had slipped by these same servants and successfully freed herself from the boring rituals of court life.
She felt her fear turn into excitement. She was practiced at the art of escape, a master of the skill. But Charmion, who neither
engaged in the art of disguise nor spoke Egyptian, walked tautly by her side, and Kleopatra wondered if Charmion’s imperious
posture would be the thing that gave them away. The two women walked arm in arm through the kitchens and out the door that
led to the loading dock as the early morning staff coaxed the fires of the ovens so that they might begin the day’s work.