Chapter Eighteen
did not see Antonius again until I returned to Rome two years later. He had been named consul and so he was never far from my husband’s side.
It was during the spring’s gladiator games that we came face to face once more.
I reclined on a wooden bench beside Caesar as the combat began. Ptolemy and the rest of my retinue sat in rows behind us and Caesarion was cross-legged by my feet. I had protested against such violent entertainment for my son, but Caesar had insisted our presence was required.
“You have not been seen in some time; if Caesarion is to be my heir, then he must be known as Roman,” Caesar had said.
“He is Roman and he is Egyptian. You cannot take one and not the other,” I argued.
“If he is to be both, then let him see the heart of my land. The gladiators will strengthen his pride in our nation.”
And so Caesarion sat with his hands covering his eyes as blood sprayed across the sand.
“Put your hands on your lap,” Caesar snapped.
Caesarion leaned backwards against my shins and whimpered at his father’s ire.
Caesar softened immediately and went to pick him up. “You will find joy in this one day.”
I prayed silently to Isis that he would not.
Caesarion had grown up in my likeness. He was reserved and thoughtful, preferring the company of beasts.
“Why wasn’t I born a lion, Mama?” he had asked one day.
Bastet and Maahes had grown up by his side and he clutched Maahes’ mane as he spoke.
They were tamed as well as any wild things could be.
That is to say, they never turned their claws on me or my family, but the servants’ blood was occasionally shed.
“You were born a lion, my son,” I had replied. “You are a Ptolemy, and we are all the beasts of Egypt.”
“Even the rats?” he asked.
I laughed. “Even the rats.”
He didn’t smile. “I just want to be a lion.”
I held him to me and kissed his hair, inhaling the sweet scent of him. “I’m sorry, but you cannot part with the blood in your veins.” I had wished it too at his age, and seeing this early conflict cross his mind made me ache for the troubles that I knew would be to come.
For Caesarion would be heir to two kingdoms, and the weight of two such mighty crowns could one day come to crush him.
Seeing him now, clutching his father’s neck as he turned away from the bloodshed of the arena, I wanted nothing more than to make him a lion.
During a break in the fighting, we were joined by a group of Romans. At first I did not recall Antonius: he now wore his beard longer, and his hair had also grown. The simple soldier’s tunic he had worn before had been discarded for more formal robes.
“Who is that?” I asked Charmion.
“Marcus Antonius,” she whispered back. “He was Caesar’s most decorated general before being made consul.”
I smiled as the memory of our meeting returned to me, but I was unsure if he would remember me. My worries were put to rest when he greeted me.
“It is a gift to be well met by the goddess Isis,” he murmured as he bowed.
“Only those chosen by Dionysus would claim it so,” I said.
He laughed. “It is a pleasure to see you once more, Pharaoh. I have thought of you often.”
“I have not thought of you at all,” I admitted. That only made him laugh harder.
There was a cheer from the crowd as the gladiator thrust his trident through the belly of his opponent, ending the fight. I looked away.
“You do not enjoy the games?” he asked.
“No, I do not take pleasure in blood and slaughter.”
The gladiator who had won the fight approached Caesar at the sidelines. He kneeled in the blood of his victim and said, “Rex, it is an honour.”
Rex—king. I saw some of the members of the senate bristle. Rome was a republic, after all.
“I find myself wondering,” Antonius said, drawing my attention back to him, “with your aversion to violence, how you ever won the war against your siblings?” His question was disarming, but would have been rude if it had not been asked with such curiosity. Charm was ever Antonius’s greatest weapon.
“A war is a war, and this is not that. This is mere sport,” I said stiffly.
“I have offended you.”
“You cannot offend me; you are no one to me.”
“For now,” he murmured.
So sure he was of our future, even back then.
“You are very certain,” I said.
He leaned towards me as though sharing a secret. “To be dubious is to be dull.”
His eyes flickered to someone behind me and his expression soured. “I speak of the dull, and here one comes. Have you ever met a Stoic?”
I had, but I would indulge him: I shook my head.
“They live the cardinal virtues: fortitude, temperance, prudence and justice.”
“Virtues you do not espouse?”
Antonius chuckled. “I am Dionysus, am I not? The very first hedonist. I must hush now, before I offend our new friend.”
I saw the man’s shadow before his face. Clouds were gathering in the sky, smoothing the edges of his silhouette.
“Well met, Brutus,” Antonius said.
“Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.” Indeed, it was him. But as in most things, your plays diverge from the truth. Brutus loved no one but himself.
He was a small fellow whose face could only have belonged to a born noble. The nose was upturned, the lips puckered with rectitude, even his eyes were half-lidded, as though he were loath to use them.
“Pharaoh, consul, a pleasure.”
“Is it?” I said lightly, and Antonius tried to suppress a snort.
Remember that child who ran across the walls of the city with bare feet and no care in the world? Antonius drew her out of me.
Brutus, seemingly unaware of my jibe, continued, “The gladiators fought well today.”
“Your bets were fruitful, then?” I asked.
“Indeed, you seem quite giddy with delight, you must have made significant sums,” added Antonius.
Brutus looked between Antonius and me, somewhat abashed. “I do not gamble.”
A sly thought occurred to me and I said, “Indeed? That is not what I heard.”
He looked startled. “What is it you’ve heard?”
“Do not press a woman, let alone a pharaoh, Brutus,” Antonius chastised him.
Brutus bobbed his head. “Of course—my apologies.”
Antonius and I shared a mirthful glance.
“It is quite all right,” I said, then I whispered conspiratorially, “I heard one of the other senators say you were seen in the Temple of Dionysus exchanging coins before the first fight.”
Brutus spluttered. “Who? Who dares lie?”
I waved my hand above my head. “They were…tall.”
“And Roman,” Antonius added helpfully.
“Yes, and Roman,” I said.
Antonius said, “With hair, I do believe?”
“Certainly not bald,” I agreed.
Brutus had gone red with indignation. He made his apologies and excused himself to seek the source of the rumour.
Antonius and I laughed until tears pricked our eyes.
We saw each other more frequently after that. At Caesar’s estate, in the Forum, or at the temple, he seemed a permanent fixture by Caesar’s side, and thus mine. His good nature made him hard to dislike and I soon found myself enjoying his company.
“Did you enjoy the theatre?” he asked one night as we walked through the city after an evening’s entertainment. Caesar did not enjoy travelling by litter and so I indulged him his eccentricities and walked through the city.
I did not often travel by foot, having found it hard to forget the hakawati’s attempt on my life. The ivory blade still adorned my neck.
“I prefer Sophocles’ Antigone to Ajax, though this rendition was well presented.”
Antonius smiled. “I have not seen Antigone, so cannot comment, but I liked the lyre.”
“The lyre was beautifully played,” I agreed.
Our interests were so different I often wondered how we had much to talk on. But talk we did, of all things vast and small.
“Fulvia would have loved tonight, but she has been unwell.”
Fulvia was his wife. I had met her occasionally at feasts and at the temple, but I did not go out of my way to engage with her.
She seemed pleasant enough and was, I was told, extremely learned, but neither of us had the motivation to seek out the other.
We were too alike—more so than I knew at the time. [*]
“Shall I visit her with my medicines tomorrow?” I asked.
Antonius dipped his head. “That would be gracious.”
Many years later I asked Antonius if he had loved Fulvia and a darkness crossed his features.
“No, but I loved her late husband and I had promised him that I would protect her should he die.” Gaius Scribonius Curio had been his name. “He was to me what Charmion is to you.”
I understood then how deep his grief must have been to lose such a part of himself. And I understood, too, how impossible it would be to dissolve his marriage to her.
I never went to Fulvia’s bedside; her malady slipped my mind the following day. I wonder, if I had, would she feature more in my tale? Just like Calpurnia’s, her absence here is born only of my ignorance, for I knew so little of her.
I understand the irony. For I know how it feels to have your life reduced to actions and assumptions.
As we crossed the main market square, crowds began to gather.
Cries of “Rex!” rang out as Caesar passed.
A young girl slipped past the legs of the guards surrounding us and made it to Caesar, a laurel wreath in her hand.
Caesar dropped to one knee and bent his head, letting the girl bestow on him the leaf crown.
Oh, my heart, if only you had seen what fate lay ahead of you. Your reputation had built you a throne that the senate was never going to let you sit upon. But in that moment, I saw nothing but a sweet exchange between a child and a king.
There was a clap of thunder above us, and in the next breath, rain began to fall from the sky in great sheets. The procession stopped and servants dashed around to erect an awning.
“Praise Isis, the rains have come,” I said, the sweetness of the rainwater touching my tongue as I spoke. I tipped my head back to enjoy the feeling of the water striking my skin.
“Cleopatra, come under the shelter,” Charmion called. She tried to pull me towards her, but I resisted.