Chapter Twenty-Seven
ntonius did what he set out to do, carving out more and more of the world for me and my family. His latest victory—Armenia—was celebrated in Alexandria with much enthusiasm.
I waited for him at the harbour as his ship came in. In my arms I held Ptolemy Philadelphus, the sixteenth Ptolemy of my line and my third child by Antonius.
“Cleopatra!” my husband called from the bow of the boat. He wore a golden ivy wreath atop hair now cut short. The purple cloak he draped on one shoulder had been adorned with beading and gemstones.
He looked every bit the Greek god as he ran down the pier towards me.
“My son!” He took Ptolemy from my arms and lifted him up, to much giggling. Then, settling the babe in the crook of one arm, he turned to me and slipped the other hand around the nape of my neck before lowering a kiss to my lips.
“How I have missed you.”
I smiled, glad to have Antonius home again, but my smile slipped when I looked past him and saw prisoners disembarking, their wrists bound in gold chains.
“Who are they?” I said.
“The Armenian royal family.”
“Why are they here?”
“Because, my love,” he said gleefully, “we are to have a triumph.”
I thought back to the last triumphal procession I had been a part of, the day Antonius and I had met. Arsinoe had been one of the prisoners paraded in front of the city.
I found myself looking away from the bound monarchs and was glad when two-year-old Ptolemy babbled something incoherent and drew my attention back to him.
“I have brought treasures for all the children,” Antonius said, his expression loving as he gazed at Ptolemy.
“I hope if you have brought Caesarion a weapon, you have brought one for Selene too—you know what happened last time,” I said.
“Of course, how could I forget my warrior daughter?” As if hearing her name, Selene appeared behind me, her arms open to join Ptolemy and Antonius’s embrace. Helios was not far behind, his hand in Caesarion’s; they had just returned from riding practice.
I watched my little family gathered beneath the brightness of the sun, and I thought, Here is my whole world. I need nothing more, nothing less.
—
Charmion and I began the plans for the triumph the next day.
It was much like the Ptolemaia, but the focus was on the recent battle and the spoils of war.
Aided in the particulars by Antonius, we transformed northern Alexandria into a festival parade.
The procession began on the first day of shemu, the air scented with freshly harvested wheat and flax.
Antonius and I rode upon a chariot through the centre of the city.
He wore a golden cape and his ivy-wreath crown.
Tucked into his belt was the latest addition to his Dionysus outfit, a thyrsus—a giant fennel stalk crafted entirely out of bronze.
I wore the crown of Isis and a large shebiu necklace made of turquoise discs.
My hair hung in two braids and was beaded with small painted pieces of pottery, which sang a tinkling tune as the chariot moved.
My citizens lined the streets, cheering. Though I had learned to tolerate the scrutiny of so many eyes, I was keen for the procession to reach its destination.
The prisoners from Armenia were paraded in front of the chariot, along with soldiers carrying the treasures found in their coffers. Occasionally a commander would throw a piece of gold or silver out to the crowd, much to the delight of the onlookers.
Maps of Antonius’s route through the world were circulated, with kohl crosses identifying the countries that were now a part of my empire. Wine was passed out along the route, in chalices in the style of Dionysus’s own.
As we reached the gymnasium, the crowds grew thicker. Here we had erected our thrones: one cast in gold for me, with a lower step for Caesarion; and one cast in silver for Antonius. A bronze bench rested on the step below, where the rest of our children now sat.
Antonius helped me down from the chariot, his face flushed with wine and excitement.
“You look so happy,” I said fondly.
“Remember when we danced, the night of the Ptolemaia?” he said, and I laughed as he twirled me around on the gymnasium steps.
The crowd cheered in response.
“Marcus, I will fall,” I gasped.
“Then I will catch you!” he sang back.
Escaping his grasp, I ascended the steps to my throne. I touched each of the children’s cheeks as I passed.
I lowered myself to my throne and set my arms atop the cool gold. Something moved beneath my wrists and I had to bite down on my tongue to stop myself from screaming in front of so many.
I clutched my hands to my chest and inspected what had startled me. Cages had been set into the panels of the armrests; within each writhed a young asp.
“The cobra is no one’s god but its own,” Antonius said, sitting alongside me on his silver throne. His words echoed my own, all those years ago in the Siwa Oasis.
One of the snakes circled its cage frantically, while the other, whose skin was a deeper copper, watched the crowd from the corner.
I knew Antonius only wished to delight me with the asps. But I found myself wondering how long they had gone without food.
Yes, it is true I felt more pity for the snakes than for the Armenian royal family. But I had an affinity with the creatures, almost an intimation of how fate would coil our legends together.
As I rested my arms on the cages, gooseflesh rose on my skin.
Antonius looked on, and I smiled at him. Satisfied that I had appreciated his gift, he turned his face to the crowd.
“People of Alexandria, I present to you the goddess Isis reborn, the Queen of Kings, Cleopatra Thea Philopator.”
I gazed upon my citizens. Ten years ago, I would never have believed this sight lay in my future. I was finally accepted by my people, who cared not for the strength of my divinity, nor which man was in my bed.
Antonius went on to announce our children’s new titles.
The younger Ptolemy was made ruler of Syria, Cilicia and Phoenicia.
Helios was next, and he rose from his seat as he was addressed, accepting the lands of Armenia and Media.
Selene was granted Cyrene, and she bowed low as the Alexandrians chanted her name.
Caesarion was last; as Pharaoh, his rule superseded his siblings, and Antonius’s tribute was befitting.
“We come now to Ptolemy Caesar, whose blood is like the finest wine. Son of the Mother of Kings, and fathered by the great Julius Caesar, there is only one country I claim in his name, though it is mighty: Rome.”
The citizens of Alexandria’s cries were thunderous. Antonius and Caesarion basked in the rapture. As I scanned the crowd, I saw someone lingering at the edge of the guard line that surrounded us.
He wore the simple linens of an Egyptian farmer, cropped short for working the fields, but loose enough not to stick to his skin in the heat. But what had caught my eye was the belt around his waist. Made of leather and embellished with metal pins, it was unique to soldiers in the Roman army.
We had many Roman soldiers in Alexandria, as Antonius and I had merged our armies, but in doing so we had neutralised the uniform, removing the belts.
The man must belong to Octavian.
“Marcus,” I called as the soldier moved closer to the gymnasium steps.
But Antonius could not hear me over the cries of the city.
I stepped down from my throne as I saw the man reach inside his tunic. Something glinted in the sun.
A knife.
“Marcus!” The concern in my voice finally made it through the cheers and he heard me.
But it was going to be too late. The soldier had already cut through the guards, taking them unawares and spraying the street with blood.
My hand flew to the ivory dagger at my throat, for I could see what was about to happen.
The soldier was aiming for Caesarion.
“No!” I screamed. He was just a step away.
Antonius sprang, withdrawing a hidden blade of his own from within the fennel stalk at his waist. The soldier was, by this time, on a level with Antonius.
But as Antonius feinted towards the assassin’s heart, the assassin lurched forward towards the bottom of my throne—where Caesarion sat by my feet.
I watched the blade destined for my son glint in the sunlight.
Then I saw blood. And Caesarion fell, then lay still.
I ran to him.
“Mama?” he said with tears in his eyes. Antonius was beside me in a moment.
I looked for the wound and nearly wept when I saw that the assassin had only struck his arm.
Antonius lifted him into his arms and we ran with him through to a room in the back of the gymnasium, as our guards descended upon the would-be assassin behind us.
“Caesarion, you will be fine,” I said, as Antonius laid him on a stone bench. “Charmion, my bag!”
Charmion rushed forward, already removing the needle and thread.
Caesarion whimpered beneath me, and I was plunged back to the memory of the ink and needle.
“This will hurt.” As it will hurt me.
“I will be brave, Mama,” he said, though his eyes were wide and fearful.
How he had grown.
“I will go and deal with the assassin,” Antonius said.
“Do not kill him before I speak to him,” I said. “I wish to know more of the man who thinks he can murder a god.”
Antonius left us.
“Will I have a scar?” my son asked.
It was Charmion who answered. “You see this?” She pointed to where her old wound had silvered, tracing the raised skin from her jaw to the top of her cheekbone. “This was healed by your mother the very same way.”
He smiled through the pain. “I like your scar. I hope mine will look the same.”
What a noble heart he had. What I would give to press my ear against his chest now and listen to the steady beat of it.
Once I had finished stitching, I kissed his brow. “Go now, find your brothers and sister and leave for the palace. Keep your guards close.”
I walked out to the gymnasium courtyard. Crowds still lingered, though all festivities had ebbed.
Antonius had taken the assassin to the palaestra. The soldier lay in a pool of his own blood, his stomach lacerated with shallow cuts. Antonius’s sword dripped crimson. “I don’t believe you,” he was saying. “Someone must have paid you.”
“No one needed to pay me,” the man spat, his jaw clenched tightly in pain.
“You hail from Rome,” I said, and he looked up.
“Do not speak to me, heretic,” he snarled.
Antonius pressed his sword’s edge to the man’s throat, drawing blood. “You will address the Pharaoh as is proper.”
Ignoring me, the soldier spoke to Antonius: “She has bewitched you away from your wife and turned you against Rome. You share the spoils of war with Egypt before your own people. The heretic and her illegitimate child are no longer welcome in Rome.”
“And upon whose authority has this claim been made?” Antonius asked.
“Our lord, Octavian.”
Antonius and I shared a look. “Did Octavian know of the territories you bequeathed to our family?” I asked him.
Antonius didn’t answer, and the assassin laughed. “She speaks like a mortal woman, but we know her to be a siren. Rome will be the death of her.”
No, it would not.
Antonius lunged towards the assassin to silence him, but I held out a hand to halt the killing blow.
At first he looked at me quizzically, but then he heard what I whispered to one of the guards, and nodded. The assassin looked between Antonius and me and cackled.
“It is as they say: she has bewitched you, addled your wit.”
Antonius turned to me sweetly. “Dearest, may I cut out his tongue while we wait?”
Before I could answer, the guard returned, a basket in his outstretched arms. I reached for it.
The assassin’s voice took on a pleading tone as I approached him with the basket. “Triumvir, do not let her touch me, I will not be subdued by her charms.”
I lifted the lid and hissing filled the palaestra.
“Step back,” I said to Antonius.
“No, stop!” Finally, the soldier spoke to me. But I was no longer listening.
“Have your fill, then have your freedom,” I said to the asps before tipping them onto the bloodied stomach of the assassin.[*]
The smaller snake, the one that had been frantic, darted away without lingering on the prey I offered. But the copper one, who had watched the crowd from its gilded cage, lunged.
The assassin thrashed as the cobra’s fangs sank into his flesh, but his cries weakened as the venom’s paralysis came into effect.
The asp, realising she would be unable to consume such a large meal, slithered away, leaving a trail of blood through the gymnasium.
“Go and find your mother, little one,” I whispered as her tail slipped out of sight.
The assassin’s jerking had stopped by my feet, but his eyes were wild and fearful.
“Kill him,” I said to Antonius.
The poison was not enough to stop his heart; the snake was only a juvenile. But it did paralyse him enough to make his death an inescapable horror.
I watched impassively as Antonius’s sword crunched through the bone and sinew of the soldier’s neck.
“It is done,” he said when the assassin’s breath left him.
But this was not the end of the bloodshed, merely the beginning. More and more people would die, until finally, I, too, would walk the lonely path to the field of reeds.
—
“What are we to do?” I said, pacing the bedchamber.
Antonius lounged on the bed, his ankles crossed. “Nothing. Octavian does not have enough support from the senate to pose a threat to us.”
I showed him my hands. “You see this? This is my son’s blood. Octavian has already proven he is a threat.”
Antonius rose, came to me and enfolded my bloodied hands in his. “I will protect you and our family. We’ll increase the guards, be more vigilant with who we allow in our presence. Perhaps we grew complacent. But Octavian will not harm us.”
I chewed my lip. “He calls Caesarion illegitimate still.”
“He only retaliates against me divorcing his sister. This is a quarrel between families, not a harbinger of war.”
I was not sure he was right.
“He will try to take the land you have granted to the children.”
“He may try, but he will not succeed.”
He could see I was not convinced.
“Call the scribes,” he said. “Allow me to make known my will. Then, if I fall in battle, our family will be protected.”
He did as he promised and penned a new will, assigning the countries he had conquered to our children. It eased some of the worry in my chest, knowing that even if we went to war, Octavian could not refute the words of Antonius’s final wishes.
I watched as each of the seven scribes sealed the wax tablet as witnesses, Antonius’s will made immortal. And as it was placed in its wooden box, I hoped it would be many more years before the box would be opened again.
Skip Notes
* I have watched your painters portray images of me and the asp time and time again, in oil, ink and lead. It is a shame none captured this true moment—the venom of a mother’s vengeance.