Chapter Twenty-Two
harmion and I journeyed to Tarsus, leaving Caesarion in Egypt. Though I was reluctant to have him out of my sight, I knew he’d be safer at home.
It was my first time leaving Egypt since I had fled back there from Rome after Caesar’s death, and I found myself invigorated by the tour. My clothing and jewellery had been refreshed, a new set of dresses dyed and stitched for the occasion.
“More turquoise?” Charmion had said as we prepared for the voyage.
“Yes. Just a little more, around the collar.”
“It will be too heavy to wear.”
“I seek beauty, not comfort.”
“It is good to see you like this,” she said, once the seamstress had taken the dress away for adjustments.
“Like what?” I knew what she meant, but I wanted to know how it appeared from the outside. For me, I felt apprehensive, as though I was being presented to the court for the first time. I was not old, twenty-eight only, but I had been weary too long.
“You are set alight again,” she said.
Her words brought a smile to my lips, and I pressed it to her scarred cheek, then held her close. “Yes, though I admit the fire in me is gilded.”
She laughed. “More jewellery, then?”
“Yes. Marcus calls to me, and he will know what it is to conjure a god.”
We crushed henna leaves and dyed my lips a dark red.
We darkened the tips of my fingers, too, before interlacing them with gold chains and rings.
I sent for the longest hair in Egypt and had the strands woven into an intricate wig that cascaded to my knees.
Each braid was threaded with carnelians and jasper.
There was no part of me that I did not refine. I even had new sandals made from hippopotamus leather, soft and luxurious.
Only when I felt like the god I was did I set sail for Tarsus.
“It is very beautiful here,” Charmion said as we traversed the Cydnus river. Awestruck farmers flocked to the riverbank, watching us pass.
We cut an unusual sight against the lush green landscape.
The silver oars of the ship flashed like fish in the shallows.
Purple silk, a recent gift from Serica, had been used to adorn the canopies, and they fluttered like petals in the wind.
I had made a habit of burning myrrh to remind me of Caesar, and the incense swirled around the boat like wisps of morning mist.
Some of your painters have tried to capture the occasion. But paint is a poor medium for gold and jewels. I have seen the garments and colours they have reimagined, but they have captured less than the essence of how it was.
I was a god, and I looked like one. No canvas can recreate it.
The crowds grew the closer we got to the city. Children ran alongside the ship to try and keep up, their laughter making me pine for Caesarion.
I smiled regally at them from beneath my vulture crown, the gilded wings heavy on my ears. Charmion had been right about the weight of the mantle; it brought a stiffness to my movements, the collar covering my chest and neck entirely.
Finally, we passed through the stone archway that marked the port of Tarsus.
The city sprawled out ahead of us. Unlike Alexandria and Rome, Tarsus blended into the landscape rather than dominating it.
The buildings were built of stone and white clay from the surrounding fields.
And though the city was walled, it felt more open than any other I had been in, and I could see straight through to the heart of it; the square boasted a stone fountain, and the streets around it were lined with palms pregnant with dates.
We moored east of the harbour and I retreated to my chambers, much to the sadness of the cheering crowds.
“Antonius has sent an invitation to dine with him this evening,” Faunus said. He was much aged since we had first met, and I continued to be grateful for his counsel. Of all the things Caesar had gifted me, Faunus’s mind was the most valuable.
I demurred with a smile. “No, he has sought to summon me enough times. Let us ignore him.”
The next day Antonius sent the same command: Dine with me in the city.
Again, I refused.
On the third day he brought the invitation himself, but I sequestered myself in my rooms on the boat and did not give him an audience.
My strategy followed Caesar’s—if you make them wait, you strip them of power.
I could feel the tension stretching like a bow string between us. It made it difficult to sleep, so on the fifth night in Tarsus, I found myself sitting on the bow of the boat, watching the sun rise.
When I was younger I had detested the dawn, heralding as it did the start of a new day and with it the burden of being the Pharaoh’s daughter. Whereas night had been a time of pleasure and play, of exploring my body beneath the sheets and whispering secrets in the dark.
Now I was older, I appreciated the new beginning that dawn brought, and had learned to fear the stillness of night amidst the loudness of my thoughts.
As the golden tones of the morning sun struck the sky, I felt myself relax, my worries and anxieties easing.
The sun’s rays glowed pink on the river’s surface and I began to outline the view with my finger. A group of ducklings swam past the ship, crying after their mother, who had reached the riverbank before them.
A shadow caught my eye: something moving in the shallows. I leaned over the railing to try and catch sight of the fish as it neared the boat.
The creature was large, larger than the trout my soldiers had caught the day before. As it moved towards the surface I flinched as it reached forward and took hold of the lower deck.
For it was no fish, but a man.
I jumped up from my couch, my mouth open to call for my guards. But then the man climbed up and over the railing and I recognised him.
“Marcus?”
I cannot help but smile, even now, as I recollect his appearance.
He wore nothing but a loincloth, and he would later tell me this was to ensure he was not pulled under by the weight of his tunic, as he was not a proficient swimmer.
River-water gathered in the channels of his muscles and my eyes were drawn to the sheen of the skin there.
He had grown leaner in our years apart and was battle-scarred in areas of his body I had never been privy to seeing before.
There were other changes, too; his hair was longer and touched by the warmth of the sun, curling in shades of brown by his ears. He had shaved off his beard, though the shadow of it still remained.
He smiled at me in his unique way, like he was about to reveal the climax of a joke.
“Selene,” he said. The name I had once given him in guise. I looked down at myself and wondered if I were not her. I wore no crown, just my bed robes, and my hair tumbled down my back in fine braids.
I felt vulnerable beneath his stare. “What are you doing here?”
“You gave me no choice.”
I recovered myself a little, and said, “You had many choices, and this should not have been one of them.”
“Pharaoh…” Seti ran onto the deck, his spear raised.
I held up a hand to stop him advancing. “If he were a threat, I’d be dead already,” I said dryly. “Please tell the kitchens to provide refreshments in the north stateroom for me and Marcus Antonius.”
“Marcus Antonius?” the guard repeated, his eyes avoiding Antonius’s loincloth.
“Yes, and send for Faunus and the scribes. We have some matters to discuss.”
Antonius’s smile dropped briefly.
“Or do you not wish to stay?” I asked him. He had thought to take me unawares, to destabilise me by arriving so abruptly.
He glanced down at his lack of clothing.
“Of course we could meet at your residence for dinner instead?” I said lightly.
His laugh was quick. “No, I am happy to discuss now, if you are?”
Without responding, I turned and entered the corridors of the boat, stopping only when we arrived at the stateroom. There I sat in the gilded chair I used for formal audiences. Faunus and the scribes had already arrived and were seated on either side of me.
I did not need a crown to prove myself a queen.
I levelled my gaze at Antonius as he followed me in, his footprints leaving wet marks on the wood. There was no chair for him; it was why I had chosen the north stateroom.
“I have granted you an audience, so speak: what do you request of this queen?” I asked.
“Serapion—” he began.
“Serapion was a traitor of Egypt,” I interrupted. “He was in league with my sister, the outcast Arsinoe.”
Antonius’s expression was grave. “The fact remains he was still a citizen of your country and, by your own reckoning, taking orders from your family. I cannot play favours. The politics of Rome are more tenuous than you think. You must pay the traitor’s levy to remain an ally of my nation.”
I scoffed. “I will not pay your taxes, Marcus. I am no longer an ally of Rome; that ended the day Caesar died.”
Antonius shook his head. “You cannot mean that, Pharaoh. Ending our partnership will lose you the security of our armies.”
I turned to Faunus. “Remind me, how many soldiers did Rome lose in the battle against Brutus and Cassius?”
“Twenty thousand, Pharaoh.”
“Twenty thousand,” I repeated. “I think perhaps it is you who needs my armies.”
“We won the war, though,” Antonius said, the merest hint of a snarl on his lips. “Pharaoh, I urge you to reconsider your stance.”
“If I am an ally, I must pay a fine for the traitor Serapion’s indiscretion. If I am not, then my coffers remain untouched. I believe my stance to be the only one possible.”
Antonius looked troubled. “Octavian—”
I cut him off once more. “Is all the more reason for Egypt’s relationship with Rome to end.”
“He is but a young man whose fortune was changed in a night. Do not condemn him.”
“Do not underestimate the ambition of youth. I tell you from experience. My brother was fourteen when he laid siege to Alexandria, and my sister seventeen when she began to call herself Queen.”
Antonius smiled, seeming to appreciate my ferocity. “Yet you overcame them.”
“Not entirely.” Arsinoe was still out there, plotting.