Hand of Isis (47 page)

We are returning to Alexandria. The ships in drydock must be finished with all haste to compensate for our losses.

Cleopatra

Caesarion, who had begun to come to the council meetings in his mother’s absence, asked, “What does that mean?”

It was Iras who answered. “It means we’re in trouble.”

“We have ninety-some ships left,” I said. “That’s not nothing.”

I was more troubled by the troop defections than anything else. If Antonius could not count on his legions, where were we then? We could replace ships, but we could not replace those fighting men. The leopard, I thought, and his spots.

A week later we heard more of the same. Antonius’ legions in Cyrenaica had gone over to Octavian, who had promised them discharges and bonuses.

“Where will he get all this money?” I asked Iras. “He can’t have enough for all he’s promising.”

“The same place Caesar did,” Iras said ominously.

T
HE
Q
UEEN ARRIVED
a few weeks later. Antonius had gone instead to Paraetonium, where the remainder of the Egyptian fleet waited; the ships that had not gone to Greece but had remained instead for courier duty and to guard the coast.

Cleopatra looked grim, though she returned in the normal way with due ceremony, her ships’ prows garlanded. Privately, she took Iras aside. “I need a plan,” she said, “for conveying Caesarion to Upper Egypt, to Koptos or Thebes. And for sending the younger children to Philae, on the borders of Nubia.”

My breath caught in my throat. Horus, sent into the wilderness.

I leaned close to her. “Is it so bad?”

Her eyes met mine. “If Antonius cannot stop the defections we will have no troops on land at all. Remember, we have had no Royal Army since Caesar.”

“Perhaps it’s time for volunteers,” Iras said. “We can call for volunteers in the city. It will be better than nothing. There are veterans who can drill the others.”

“Yes,” I said through the lump in my throat. I knew exactly who that meant.

_______

T
HAT NIGHT
I was already dressed for bed when there was a knock on the door. I rose and opened it, surprised.

Demetria came in and sat down on my bed, her white chiton draped around her. She was tall for her age, her light brown hair flowing down her back from a single clasp, her square forehead the picture of Agrippa’s at that age. “Ma, I need to talk to you.”

I came and sat by her where the moonlight came in through the window.

“Does he know about me?”

“Who?”

“Marcus Agrippa,” she said. Her eyes were sea blue, not dark like his.

“No.” I lifted my head, remembering. “I was afraid to tell him in Rome, and we’ve not spoken since. Do you want him to know?”

Demetria looked out the window, down the path of the moon to the harbor. “No,” she said quietly. “Not when he’s done such terrible things.”

“Darling, he’s not a bad man,” I said. “He may be our enemy, but he is a good man. I know that.”

“I don’t,” she said, and her jaw tensed. “I see them every day at the temple, families coming to pray for husbands or brothers or sons because we have to fight this stupid war. I know Antonius doesn’t want to fight it! I know he’d rather it just all went away! But we have to fight it because of Agrippa. Because he’s on Octavian’s side.” She looked at me. “You could have made him be on our side. You could have brought him to us like the Queen has Antonius.”

“I wish I could have,” I said. “And maybe I could have, if I’d manipulated him better. If I’d pushed and cajoled and rewarded and tempted when he was very young. Maybe I could have.” I took her hand between mine. “But I thought it was wrong then, darling. Wrong to use sex to manipulate him. We can only do what’s good ourselves, and hope that it comes out for the best.”

“But it’s not the best in the long term,” Demetria said.

“We can’t know that,” I said. “We may be Her hands, but we make the terrible mistake of hubris if we start thinking of ourselves as gods.”

She nodded gravely. “I want to be dedicated on my birthday. I’ll be sixteen, and I can do it then.”

“Irrevocable vows,” I said. “You will be a priestess of Isis forever.”

“I know,” she said. “And it’s what I want. What I truly want.”

I hugged her close. “Then I will wish you every joy. You know I’m so proud of you.”

“There’s a catch,” she said, from somewhere around my earring. “I have to be manumitted. Only free girls can take the dedication.”

“Oh,” I said, still holding her tight, thinking how odd and strange at once it was to have her be a young woman in my arms. It was a trite thought, but it seemed such a short time ago she had been a laughing baby. “I had forgotten. I’ll talk to the Queen about it tomorrow.”

A
ND SO
just after Demetria’s birthday, at the winter solstice, the Queen herself and Pharaoh came to the Temple of Isis for the dedication of the new priests. I stood beside her in the vast sanctuary while three girls and two youths came forth dressed in white and knelt before the Hierophant, repeating the words of their vows with quiet voices. Demetria looked lovely in her white gown, and when the choir began to sing and the flame ran down the great channels of stone around the front, I saw her look up, the tears on her face gleaming like the oil on her forehead.

I sobbed, and it was Pharaoh himself, Ptolemy Caesarion, who put his arm around me. “She’ll be fine, Mother,” he whispered. Then his voice changed as though seeing something for the first time. “She’s really gotten pretty, hasn’t she?”

He was sixteen and a half, and she sixteen. I squeezed his arm and smiled through my tears. “She has,” I whispered back.

I looked across to where Emrys and Dion stood solemnly side-by-side to receive the blessings brought by the new priests. The only time I’ll ever see Dion here, I thought with a smile. But he would do it for Demetria.

Antonius was not there, of course. He was drinking heavily, which I did not find particularly helpful. He was drunk almost every night, sitting up over the wine and falling into bed at nearly dawn.

I raged at Emrys about it one day, when I’d seen Antonius to bed first thing in the morning and then gone to Dion’s. “What does he think he’s doing? Is he a general or not?”

Emrys shrugged, spreading his bread with goat cheese. “He’s had it, Charmian. It happens to horses sometimes. You have a good warhorse, but at some point you’ve had it too long. It breaks. It doesn’t have the temper for fire anymore, and at the first buzzing of arrows it shies and stands shaking. Antonius is done. Just done. He can’t do it anymore.”

Emrys got up, and I saw what was behind him on the couch. I stood still, frozen myself.

He saw where I looked, and came and took me in his arms. “They’re just leathers, Charmian. I’m drilling the volunteers.”

“You’re too old,” I said. “Emrys, you’re too old!”

“I’m forty-one,” he said. “That’s not as old as all that. Besides,” he said, brushing my hair back. “Those are Dion’s.”

“Oh sweet Isis!” I clutched him. “Dion doesn’t know anything! He’s never held a sword in his life!”

“Neither have most of the volunteers,” Emrys said. “He has to, love.” He looked at me ruefully. “He’s finally found the thing worth killing or dying for.”

“The city,” I said, raising my head. “This beautiful, horrible, bizarre and wonderful city.”

“Alexandria,” Emrys said. “His friends and his lovers and his students and old professors and nieces and nephews in the Jewish Quarter and the Soma and the markets and the theaters and takeout places and all of the things he has ever loved. There’s a word for that. The only thing that in the end is worth killing and dying for.”

“Home,” I said.

______

T
O OUR SURPRISE
, Octavian did not come in the winter. He had problems of his own, mutinies by his troops in Italy, who wanted to be paid.

Once again, money bought us time. Ships were built on the Red Sea. Plans were laid. If Octavian took Alexandria, Caesarion should go to Upper Egypt, always the base of Cleopatra’s power, unconquered and proud. There, Horus could raise another army, or wait out the turns of Roman politics. But he could not go as a child.

Thus, one morning early in the new year, when the harvest came in, Caesarion had a ceremony of his own. He and Antyllus were enrolled in the gymnasium, and Antonius made sacrifice with both of them, his son and Caesar’s, as they put on the toga of manhood in the Roman way.

Egypt had a Pharaoh, and Horus was no longer a child.

I
T WAS THEN
that news came that sent Antonius to the bottom of a wine jug. Herod had gone over to Octavian, and opened all of the ports of Judea to him in return for the cities of the coast restored to his rule.

“There is still money,” said Cleopatra. “He needs it, and we have it.”

When Octavian landed in Ptolemais Ace, an envoy was sent to him carrying a generous amount of cash in token of more to come, and the message that Cleopatra was willing to step down from the throne, and allow her son Ptolemy Caesarion to rule Egypt alone.

There was no reply.

Next, Antonius sent an envoy, again well armed with cash, asserting that he would be willing to retire into private life, and that large sums of money might change hands in the process.

Once again there was no reply.

“He means to have it all,” I said. “He will settle for nothing less than everything.”

______

A
NTONIUS SAILED
with fifty ships to cut his supply lines, but he limped back into port a month later with six. Agrippa had cut him up instead.

S
IX WEEKS LATER
, Agrippa took Pelousion.

The Delta lay open before him.

C
AESARION SHOULD GO
to Memphis,” I said. “Before the Saite branch is cut.”

“I do not want to go,” Caesarion said. “Antyllus and I can stand and fight.”

“That’s not your job,” the Queen said. “You must think of the dynasty.”

“I must think of being a man whom men will follow,” Caesarion said, and in his dark eyes I saw the unstoppable determination of the young. “How can I be Horus when I flee while my people are in danger?”

A chill ran up my back. “If you are killed in battle, what then will become of Egypt?” I demanded of him.

Caesarion met my eyes levelly. “I have brothers and a sister to come after me.” There was no fear in his face. Perhaps it was that one does not believe one can die at seventeen, or perhaps it was simply that he was brave. He dropped his voice, speaking to me alone. “Charmian, Mother, I am not ambitious. How should I be, when I was born to be Pharaoh? What could I strive for that was not mine the day I was born? All of these years you have raised me to be Horus, to care for the Black Land every day of my life, to love my people and to fulfill the bargain of the Ptolemies. If my death would serve Egypt, then I am ready to die.”

It was my eyes that dropped from his. “Perhaps you will go later,” I murmured.

It mattered not. The Saite branch was already cut.

O
CTAVIAN AND
A
GRIPPA
advanced on Alexandria. They entered the suburb of Canopus six miles away. From Pharos, their ships could be seen patrolling off our coast. The gates were shut. Antonius called all of the cavalry he had left, and such veterans as knew their way around horses.

I saw Emrys mounting up in his old leathers, an aide at Antonius’ side. He disdained plate. He had never worn it, and would not start now. His helm was the one he had worn when he served Caesar.

I was beyond tears and stood silent at the rail, watching them go out to fight in the streets of Canopus, to resist every length of road to the city.

The temples thronged with frightened people, and I thought that Demetria must have her hands full. But like Emrys, she had her duty and I had mine. I went inside, and saw to dinner and the lessons for Selene and Helios, my voice as normal as possible.

At nightfall they were back.

A cavalry charge had broken Octavian’s advance, and they had withdrawn to the edge of town. They would not hear our emissaries.

Emrys came in with Antonius, and I ran to him.

“Not a scratch,” Emrys said, putting his arms around me. “It takes more than that to touch me, love.”

“Come and eat,” I said.

There were all of Antonius’ favorite dishes, and I sat with Emrys and Dion, my head on Emrys’ breast. Everyone smiled. The wine was the best.

When the sweets came around, Antonius lifted his glass. “To those of us who will die together,” he said.

Silence fell.

And in the silence Dion lifted his cup in return. “Absent friends,” he said.

I lifted my chin and drank from Dion’s cup. “Absent friends,” I said. “Now and forever.”

I
N THE NIGHT
I lay pillowed against them both, our bodies entwined. I woke, for I thought I heard some strange music. When I went to the window there was nothing.

The sacrifice had not been made. Dionysos was leaving.