Chapter Seventeen #3
When I looked back, I didn’t recognise the reflection. My lips were swollen and stained red from the wine. The kohl I had wiped away had left dark rings on the skin beneath my eyes, and my braids cast a patterned shadow across my jaw, emphasising the sharpness of the bone.
My skin was more burnished than it had been in Egypt, as Rome’s more temperate climate lent itself to more evenings sitting beneath the warmth of the sun.
I ran my fingers along the dark freckles that dusted the bridge of my broad nose.
I had not seen them since I was a carefree and reckless child, running wild in the summer heat.
There was a cry behind me and I jerked upright, spinning on my heel. The movement caused my brain to rattle against my skull and I clutched it in agony.
When I felt I could focus my eyes again, I was mollified to see that the sound wasn’t a person in pain, merely a couple of wine-merry soldiers taking pleasure in each other beneath a mulberry tree.
The fallen ripe fruit, crushed beneath their bodies, scented the air with a sweet, sickly aroma and I felt my stomach lurch.
“Mint, I need mint,” I murmured to myself, but Charmion had left with my medicine bag.
The temples will have it.
With one hand on my head and the other cradling my stomach, I cursed the wine and my own gluttony as I slipped into the nearest temple.
Fire flickered in torches along the wall as I swept through the entranceway. The altar was adorned with a large statue, but my gaze was fixed on the incense by its feet.
I rummaged through the offerings and basins of perfumed water until I found a few sprigs of mint.
I placed them on my tongue and chewed slowly. After some time, I felt it calm the churning of my stomach.
“She is beautiful, is she not?” A figure moved beside me and I gasped.
The stranger stood to my left, looking up at the statue. I followed his gaze, appreciating the sculpture for the first time.
Incredibly, the woman was made entirely of gold.
She was intricately crafted, the contours of her column dress so detailed they looked like a breeze would shift them.
Her face was cast to the side, displaying a single pearl earring in her lobe.
Finely carved braids were knotted at the base of the neck, and in her arms she held a cherub, small and plump.
And though not all her features were visible, it was as if I were looking in the reflecting pool once more.
The statue was of me.
I swallowed the last remnants of the mint in my mouth, but no words came forth.
“The goddess Venus holding Cupid,” the man said. “They say she has been made in the likeness of Caesar’s mistress, Cleopatra.”
“Mistress”: I smarted at the term. We have not spoken much on Calpurnia, but know that I thought of her little, save in moments like these. Caesar had told me I was his wife in all ways—and that was enough for me. If only it had been enough for those around us.
“His mistress must be a worthy muse,” I replied.
“I wonder what the goddess thinks of her new face,” he said. The man stepped closer to the statue and I realised that his wide shoulders and height would be of the same size as it, should he too stand on a plinth. As he peered at the sculpture, I felt as if my own features were being scrutinised.
“Perhaps she sees the creation as an honour,” I said lightly.
“Perhaps it is Cleopatra who should see it that way,” he rejoined.
“I’m sure she does.”
“Caesar believes her to be Venus in the realm of men.”
“And you do not?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I think that if the gods walked among us so freely, then they would bless those more in need of fortune.”
“You do not think the Pharaoh of Egypt requires fortune?”
“From what I hear she has enough.” There was a smile in his voice that blunted the insult in his words.
“The gods choose their vessels, do they not?”
“Yes.” The man laughed, a cheerful sound that brought an involuntary grin to my face. “It may be envy that twists my tongue. Caesar has yet to erect a statue of me.”
“And who are you to be worthy of such a boon?” My curiosity tugged on his gaze and he looked at me. For the first time I could see him in his entirety.
The man’s face was leaner than I’d expected, being set upon such a broad body. He was pretty more than he was handsome—a countenance made for oil paintings.
As he turned to me, I could tell from his gait that he was a soldier, if the sword by his waist was not enough of a clue.
“Marcus Antonius,” he said.
I recalled the name. He had been Caesar’s second in command during the Battle of Pharsalus, which saw Pompey’s army sacked.
“And, priestess, what shall I call you?”
I looked down at myself, realising he believed me to be an acolyte of Venus. Without my robe and crown, the simple underdress I wore could easily have been mistaken for the robes of a priestess.
“You may call me Selene.” I waited for the moment when he would recognise my face in Venus’s, but he did not see me for the queen I was.
That was perhaps the most precious thing about Antonius; I was Selene to him before I was Cleopatra.
The name was false, but the person who bore it was not.
Cleopatra was a Ptolemy, a queen. She was Egypt. Selene was just a woman.
Antonius turned back to the statue.
“You must forgive me, Selene. A tribute such as this is to be envied. To live in gold and bronze once your soul has departed this world is an immeasurable gift.”
Back then I believed as he did. I had already been deified by my people, and this statue would go on to immortalise my divinity so future generations would know of it.
But now I think of Venus de Milo, whose marble stare has lasted millennia; limbs shorn from her body, earlobes lost beneath earth and stone.
Time has taken its tithe, as has the memory of the people.
Who was the woman who captured Alexandros of Antioch’s heart?
Was she loved, like Caesar loved me? Aphrodite, they call her—but I know that is not her name.
Is it better to be forgotten, or remembered with ill repute, my spirit ignored by men as inconsequential?
I am glad that gold statue was lost in the centuries that separate the woman I was then—yearning for idolisation—and the one I have come to be.
“I would have a thousand statues carved in my name if Caesar would only will it,” the man continued. He spoke as though the conversation was concluding, but I was not ready for him to leave. There was something about this man that made me want to know the whole of him.
“What god would you honour if you were in the Queen’s place?” I asked.
“I should imagine my likeness is best captured in the god Mars.”
I was taken aback. I knew very little about the man in front of me, but he did not conjure the bloodthirsty god of war.
He must have sensed my surprise.
“You think not?” he said, raising a brow.
“I do not mean to presume, but your aspect does not align with what I know of that deity.”
“Tell me, then, Selene, fair of moonlight, who am I?”
I looked him up and down, scrutinising him like he had my statue.
His blue eyes danced with a hint of mischief.
Despite the rigidity of his stance, he held his arms clasped behind his back, opening up his chest as if ready to embrace at a moment’s notice.
He hummed softly as he awaited my answer, as though keeping time with music only he could hear.
I imagined he was a capable dancer, and if not, that he’d still enjoy the rhythm of it, spinning with abandon.
Bes, I thought—god of pleasure. But I did not want to give away my true nature by invoking the Egyptian god, so I called on a deity he would more readily know.
“Dionysus.”
The lopsided grin he gifted me was a treasure I went on to think of often. “It is good that I enjoy wine.”
I shot him back a carefree smile.
Selene is freer with her emotions than I am as Queen.
I always found it hard to show joy as Pharaoh. As a child my father had consistently encouraged me to shine my teeth on the citizens: A smile for them is a boon they will forever remember.
I had grimaced.
“Not like that.” He had laughed. “You look pained. Do you not enjoy yourself?”
I couldn’t say no. If I’d said no then I’d have had to admit that I did not like the eyes of the court on me, and therefore did not want to be queen.
I no longer feared being queen, but I still had not grown used to the scrutiny of the court.
“Dionysus,” Marcus repeated. “Thank you, Selene, you have brightened a rather dull evening.”
“You do not enjoy the festivities?”
He frowned, which hardened the lines of his face. “I admit, I am a superstitious man. I do not believe in celebrating a victory when those who cheer for you do not all sing true.”
It was the first hint I had of the discord that was to come.
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. I have indulged in too much wine. Perhaps you are right and Dionysus has made me his vessel.”
“Eat some of the mint,” I said, pointing to the scented bowls.
His eyes narrowed on mine. “And why would I do that?”
Embarrassment heated my cheeks. It was rare that someone could make me feel so unsettled so quickly. “It will soothe your stomach,” I said.
He picked up a sprig, trusting me completely on such a short acquaintance. It would be his downfall one day.
“And drink water,” I said. “It will flush your organs.”
“I did not know that priestesses of Venus were so versed in healing.”
There was no need to contradict him, for at that moment footsteps approached us. Antonius saw him first.
“Caesar.” He inclined his head and raised his right hand, his fingers extended in salute. But Caesar did not have eyes for him.
“Cleopatra, you have found my second surprise before I could present it to you.”
I turned, frustrated that my deception was revealed. I had so enjoyed being Selene for a slip of the night.
“Cleopatra?” Antonius mouthed in horror, but I ignored him.
“I went to get some fresh air and my footsteps brought me to Venus’s temple.”
“She beckoned you to this sacred place. I have told you, she is bound to your soul.” He reached for my hands, enveloping them in his. “As am I.”
Antonius must have made a sound, for Caesar looked to him as if only just seeing him.
“Antonius? What are you doing here?” His tone was sharp.
“I came to admire the statue…” Antonius’s voice trailed off.
I gave him a bemused glance before answering in his stead. “Marcus was just informing me of how great an honour it is to be in my presence.”
“An honour for all,” Caesar said, kissing my hand, appeased. “Now come back to the festivities so I may drink to your health.”
“Allow me to retrieve my crown, Julius, and I will join you shortly.”
Sated by drink himself, Caesar nodded and returned to the hall.
“Pharaoh, I apologise for my crudeness, I did not know to whom I spoke,” Antonius said.
I waved away his concern. “It was a rare pleasure to be perceived for who I am, not what I am. To be soldier and priestess in a quiet temple.”
“Or a meeting of two gods, Venus and Dionysus.” His eyes were full of mirth.
I met his stare levelly. “Know me by my true name, then: Isis.”
His smile dropped as I swept out of the temple and back to my crown.
Skip Notes
* I met Titus Livius once, who attributed these words to me. A repugnant man whose historical accounts are more embellished than my formal garments. Of course, it was his words that survived the ages and not mine.