Chapter Thirteen #2
I did not reach for him and his expression turned guarded. “I am sorry if this was not what you desired.”
To my surprise, his knees struck the floor as he bowed before me. He pulled his blade from his waistband and laid it on the floor between us. “You may punish me as you will.”
I thought of the guard I had sentenced to death with his blade. It was the very same sword he proffered now. The gladius that had killed Pothinus. I picked it up and turned it around in my hands.
He bared the skin of his neck to me; it was browned from countless days spent fighting alongside the soldiers to reclaim my throne.
I could have killed him. He would have let me, would have welcomed it.
It would have been a more honourable death than the one he ultimately had. But how different your history would have been. Caesar’s martyrdom would have been a quiet thing, the smallest of ripples in the currents of the world. Not enough to sway the tide of war.
He would just be a Roman slain by a whore. Because my tale would be the same.
I would always be Medusa. A monster and not a person. For how else would the world conceive of a woman with such power?
Medusa was a kindred spirit, another woman wronged by white hands and black ink. But this is my story and not hers.
Caesar looked so vulnerable beneath me, as if the weight of his feelings had laid him low.
I let the sword clatter to the floor, the sound shattering any hesitation I had left. I had already been labelled a whore. The word could never be unspoken.
There will be those of you who scowl and shake your head at the thought of the great Julius Caesar bowing before anyone. But he bowed before me, time and time again.
And I before him.
I lowered myself to the floor and raised his chin to meet mine, as an equal. “You are what I desire.”
Our brows touched as we shared the same breath. And when his lips pressed against mine, I thought of nothing else but him; his smell, his touch, his taste.
Alea iacta est.
Caesar never said those words, but if he had, it would have been here, and not on the Rubicon river.
The die is cast.
—
Three full moons later, I was pregnant. I had been praying in the still unfinished Temple of Isis when I found out. With the war taking most of the resources and labour force, the construction had stuttered to a stop.
The interior was nearly complete. Twelve columns thrust up from the tiled ground, awaiting the placement of the roof.
In the centre of the temple was a small inlaid pond, a design I had requested, which I intended to one day fill with lotus flowers.
For now it was dry, as the tunnel leading to the central cistern of the island was incomplete.
Hieroglyphs had been etched into the walls, telling the story of Isis’s resurrection of her husband Osiris. I ran my hand across the beloved tale, conjuring my mother’s voice from my memories.
“Osiris the grand, Osiris the great, ruled with Isis by his side. But where there is greatness, there is envy. One fated night his brother, Seth, murdered the noble Osiris, sealing his body in a coffin and drowning him in the Nile river. Seth took the throne, dismissing the determination of Isis.
“The queen sought her lover’s body for proper burial, retrieving him from the depths of the Nile.
Seth, learning of his brother’s fate, cut and desecrated the embalmed body and scattered his remains around the world.
Isis transformed into a bird, searching for all the parts of him.
” My mother’s hands interlocked, creating two wings in flight.
She swept them across my face and I laughed.
“When she had collected all of the parts of her husband,” my mother continued, “she used her power to resurrect her love from the beyond. But in this new form, Osiris could only rule the land of the dead. And so they parted, one ruling in life, one ruling in death. Ten months after their union Isis gave birth to their son, Horus, protecting him until he was old enough to challenge his father’s throne from Seth. And to emerge victorious.”
My hand rested on the final carving of Isis as the memory of my mother faded. The image was the height and breadth of the temple wall and it depicted the goddess on the throne with Horus at her breast.
I bowed my head before her.
“May your wisdom guide me. May your love surround me. Protector, mother, queen, I am yours.”
I brought my head up from my chest and felt a wave of dizziness wash over me. Charmion was there to catch me.
“My medicines, Charmion,” I said faintly.
Since Ahmose’s death, the handmaiden had taken to wearing my bag of remedies wherever we went. I never mentioned it, but I knew it brought her comfort. It brought me comfort too—even though I had failed at saving him, she believed that I could still save others.
I rummaged through the clay vials, searching for the antidote to rouse me. But I felt so weak I could not see clearly.
“What do you need?” Charmion said, taking the bag from me.
“Honey and vinegar.”
Charmion handed me the tincture. I was about to bring it to my lips when she said, “Wait.”
“What is it?” My hands shook from the effort of holding the vial aloft.
A realisation had come over her, brightening her eyes and lifting her brows. “This is the third time in as many days, Cleo. You’ve had headaches, nausea, sleepless nights. Might this be caused by something?”
“Exhaustion.”
She shook her head, trying to lead me like a camel to water. “When was the last time you bled?”
“I do not know.” Truthfully, Charmion was the one who tracked my monthly rivers.
“It has been three turns of the moon.”
The vial fell from my grasp and struck the tiled floor.
“I’m pregnant.”
—
When Caesar returned from fighting that day, I was waiting for him in the rooms we now shared.
The campaign to reclaim Egypt was progressing slowly.
The Romans and my allies had reclaimed Pharos Island and my beloved lighthouse.
Arsinoe and Theos’s army had suffered significant casualties from the burning of the harbour and had retreated west. But the war was far from won.
“The rebellion army have been seen pillaging the city for wood to make new ships,” he said as he entered. “I am expecting reinforcements by the end of the season. Mithridates leads the fleet from Cilicia.”
When I didn’t reply, he seemed to sense there was something amiss. He focused his gaze on me and stood before me.
“What has happened?”
As the day had progressed, I had become more and more nervous about telling Caesar. My mind was heavy with worry about the complexities of what an heir of both Rome and Egypt might mean.
He reached for me now, cupping my cheek in his hand.
What if he does not claim the child? The thought didn’t scare me like it should have; instead I found myself pulling away from him. If I had to do this alone, I would.
“I’m pregnant.”
Caesar’s reaction was instantaneous. The smile that spread across his face was enough to bring tears to my eyes. He embraced me, covering us in our enemies’ blood.
“He will be fierce like his mother,” he said as he kissed my palms.
“Our child may be a girl,” I said, smiling in relief.
“Then she will be even fiercer.” He lowered his head to my stomach and kissed me above my navel.
“And kind-hearted like her father.”
He stood, wrapping his arms around me once more.
“You need a bath.” I laughed, pushing him away.
“Join me?”
I let myself be led towards the bathhouse. Our laughter and joy echoed across the palace that night.