Kleopatra (21 page)

Kleopatra declined all invitations to tour the island, instead sitting with her father in the reception room of the mansion
where they stayed, watching him pace like a caged beast, waiting for Cato to call on him. Finally, Auletes swallowed his royal
dignity and sent a messenger to Cato to deliver the news that he had arrived and was receiving guests.

To this, Cato did not respond.

Auletes had no choice but to request a meeting. Contemptuously, Cato declined.

“Who is this Roman that he should make my father suffer?” Kleopatra asked. She was sitting on her father’s lap late one evening
after a long banquet, sipping from Auletes’ golden goblet. It pained her to watch her kingly father fret like a nervous serving
girl over this Roman swine.

“Who is this Roman that he should insult our king?” echoed the inebriated Kinsmen. The men were sprawled about the dining
hall, some having forsaken their couches and sitting directly upon the table amid platters of fruit and pitchers of wine,
their boots unlaced, their long legs stretching the width of the table. The wealthy Rhodian businessmen invited to the dinner
to meet with the king sat back in their seats, with languid limbs slung over the arms of the sofas. Only Charmion, the sole
adult woman present, remained sober and sufficiently erect.

“We have heard that Cato is always drunk,” offered the Rhodian statesman with whom the king lodged. Presently, he appeared
to share that condition with the Roman. “They say that he yells at his servants if they try to bring him food and beats them
if they do not bring the drink fast enough when he requests it.”

“He is nothing,” said a Kinsman. “His family were still dirt farmers when His Majesty’s family had ruled Egypt for generations.”

“He has no right to humiliate a king.”

Kleopatra could see that the talk, meant to bolster and cheer the king, had the opposite effect. I know my father better than
all these men, she thought. She settled into the crook between the king’s shoulder and his belly, adjusting her position on
his lap, unaware that she absorbed the king’s anxiety about Cato into her own small body. Nervously, she fingered his cup,
taking another gulp of bitter wine. She had drunk enough to be sleepy, though her fears kept lax-ness at bay. Auletes seemed
neither to notice nor to care that his daughter was getting drunk. He cuddled the girl to his chest, causing her to topple
the cup and spill the red liquid upon his linen robe.

She put a repentant hand to her mouth, but Auletes simply laughed and clutched her harder, so that she could feel the quake
of his belly rising and falling as he amused himself with her accident. He took the cup from her small hand, drained the rest
of the wine, and threw the cup on the floor.

“More!” he called to no one in particular.

A servant rushed toward him with a fresh white robe, but this man he kicked in the chest, sending him toppling backward. The
Kinsmen and guests laughed at the calamity, and the stunned servant—stunned, for Auletes was not a cruel man—immediately saw
the wisdom in joining in the laughter. He picked himself up, brushed off the fresh garment, and proffered it again to the
king, though this time at a distance.

“More wine, fool,” said the king, still laughing. “More wine! Not more clothes!”

The Kinsmen again laughed at the servant, who recovered his dignity by snapping his fingers toward the two serving girls huddled
in the corner who scurried to fill Auletes’ glass, almost tripping over each other. In the rush to please the king, their
pitchers clashed, and he doubled over in an uncontrollable spasm of laughter, almost sending his daughter off his lap. Kleopatra,
afraid that the two great colliding pitchers would smash her head, ducked into the shelter of her father’s gut, bringing more
peals of merriment.

“Tomorrow it shall all be settled,” the king said, releasing the tight squeeze he had on the girl on his lap. “Tomorrow, I
shall meet with the Roman.”

Kleopatra sat up as if startled out of a dream. She shook her head to try to clear the drowsy feeling.

“Tomorrow the Roman comes here?”

“No, child, the Roman is not in a position to leave his chambers.”

“Has he been censored by his superiors?” the girl asked.

“He has a more compelling reason than that. His doctors have prescribed routine ingestion of laxatives for his flatulence,
and he does not wish to leave his chambers in this vulnerable condition. The Roman has invited me to attend him in his quarters,”
said the king matter-of-factly.

A red-faced Kinsman pushed himself off his chair and struck an indignant pose. “Our king must not humble himself to the summons
of an ordinary Roman citizen.” The men of Rhodes, who had long been squirming under the Roman thumb, shook their heads in
agreement, muttering crass comments about Cato’s condition.

“We depart for Rome in two days. Dignity is a small price to pay for Rome’s sanction,” said Auletes. “I have said before that
the gods are with Rome and I am with the gods.”

But the Kinsmen and the Rhodians did not see the king’s wisdom.

“How is it that you do no understand our situation?” shouted the king. “You are like children. You are worse than children,
Brothers, because my daughter is wiser than you.”

Kleopatra sat up straight on her father’s lap, surprised to be dragged into the argument and afraid to look at the insulted
Kinsmen.

“Kleopatra, tell our Kinsmen why it is that Egypt has no Roman governor, despite the fact that every neighboring country has
fallen to Roman domination.”

Every bleary eye in the room was on the child. “Go on, girl,” said the king. “Speak up.”

She took a deep breath, “Because King Ptolemy XII Auletes, Pharaoh of Two Lands, son of Dionysus and the native god Osiris,
and
my father
, is a friend to Rome.”

“Precisely, my child.” He ignored his men and locked eyes with his daughter. “Remember this: Always, we are threatened by
the might of Rome. Always we must slake the beast. Do you understand that, Kleopatra?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Because the one thing that Rome always needs—the true god and idol and soul of the Republic—is the one thing we Ptolemies
always have.”

They said the word together. “Money.”

The Kinsmen laughed, but Kleopatra was worried by the fatigue in her father’s eyes. “I shall remember it always,” she said.
“Tomorrow, I shall accompany you to meet the Roman.”

“You are eleven years old.”

“I am a princess and I can impress the Roman with my knowledge of the Latin tongue and of Latin literature. I shall be the
strictest evidence of your loyalty to Rome, father. He will think that you have paid honor to Rome by educating your daughter
in the Roman language and the Roman arts. I shall be your brightest emissary.” She stared at her father, avoiding the skeptical
faces of his men, who had since grown quiet.

“So you shall,” said the king, to the astonishment of all present, even the princess. “I shall let you be my littlest diplomat.”

Kleopatra had never seen a more stern-faced old man than Cato. His mouth appeared set in a permanent grimace, with deep crevices
slashing downward from the corners. He did not rise upon the royal party’s entrance, but remained in his chair with a blanket
covering the lower part of his body, so that the princess could not be certain that the chair upon which he sat was not a
toilet. With an indolent wave of the hand Cato bid Auletes to approach him. The Kinsmen were mortified by this behavior and
desired to move against him, making ominous rattles with their swords, but Auletes signaled to them to be still.

“Who is the child?” the Roman asked, speaking in Greek to the king but staring into the face of the young girl, who stared
back at him.

The Roman did not understand that he mustn’t address the king first. A Kinsman said, “The princess Kleopatra, the king’s second
daughter. She is well-versed in languages.”

“Is that so?” he said slowly, as if words alone, no matter what their meaning, put him in a foul way.

Kleopatra held her father’s hand, anticipating a cue of some kind, but received none. The king stepped toward the Roman. The
princess moved with him until they took their seats opposite the Roman. The Kinsmen awaited their king at the back of the
room.

“I have considered your position, Your Majesty,” offered Cato, apparently oblivious to the customary formalities accorded
to a king. “I must advise you to abort this voyage to Rome. You must go back to Egypt and reconcile with your people.”

“Marcus Cato,” the king began in so agreeable a tone of voice that the princess would have thought he was speaking to one
of his favorite pets. “I would like nothing better than to reconcile with my people, as you call them, but I am in an untenable
position without the support of Rome. The citizens of Egypt—Greek and Egyptian and Jew alike—are hostile to me for acquiescing
to the demands of Caesar and Pompey. My subjects have suffered under the strain of high taxes necessary to pay Rome what Rome
requires. This is the cause of their rebellion. Were it not for the demands of Caesar and Pompey upon me, my people would
be perfectly content.”

“Nonetheless, that does not change my opinion.” The Roman doubled over his stomach, issuing such a loud cry of pain that the
king instinctively jumped to help him. Cato, one arm clutching his stomach, raised the other to ward off the king. Auletes
took his seat.

The Roman sat up, his eyes turned toward the heavens as if to ask the gods why this ill health had befallen him. “You see
my predicament?”

“I won’t keep you, my Roman friend,” the king said. “I only wish to know your considered opinion of the reception I shall
receive in Rome. Might you characterize the mood of the senate?”

Cato said, “My good king, the senate is no more useful than an old man’s prick.”

Auletes burst into laughter despite the gravity of the situation. “If the senate is of no use, then, pray tell, who governs
Rome?”

“It’s a monarchy, much like you have in Egypt. Pompey is king; Caesar is queen.”

Kleopatra had heard those exact words in the marketplace. She wondered, but did not think it suitable to ask, if, in addition
to bedding Pompey’s wife, Caesar had bedded the great man, too. She would discreetly inquire on this matter in Rome.

Auletes pressed Cato for more information. Who might he see in Rome to help his cause? But Cato grew weary of company, perhaps
because of his condition, perhaps for need of the drink. He said, “Sire, there is a Roman law forbidding a citizen to sell
himself into slavery in order to pay his debts, but I believe it is still permissible for a foreigner to do so.”

The Kinsmen drew their swords. Auletes rose upon hearing this abominable insult, and the princess with him. She hoped her
father’s men would take vengeance upon this insulting Roman who talked to her father as if he were a common servant. She would
have liked to witness a fight, even at the high cost to her father.

But Cato allowed a crack in his relentless grimace. In a calming tone he said, “I thought our conversation benefited by the
insertion of humor, Your Majesty. Believe me, I am trying to save you from what will be humiliation, should you proceed to
Rome.”

The king waved to his men; reluctantly, they resheathed their swords, but they did not sit.

“Listen to me, Sire,” Cato continued. “I am known to be a plain-speaking man. You will never receive more sound advice than
this: Go home and raise the money to pay your debt. Do not appear in Rome begging more favor, or this will be a game you play
without end. You could turn Egypt into liquid silver and pour it into their pockets and it will still not appease either the
senate or Pompey or the vulture Caesar. The leeches who rule Rome will bleed you dry.”

The princess was astonished at the Roman’s candor. He spoke without fear, knowing Auletes might repeat his words to Pompey,
to other senators, to Caesar himself if he had the opportunity. Yet the old grouch appeared to be free of the anxiety that
his words might be reported to his Roman colleagues.

“You cling too fiercely to your situation, my dear King Ptolemy,” he said gently, almost charitably. “I would not worry so
about the annexation of Egypt. Should this occur, it would liberate you. You would no longer have these concerns.”

“Yes, I could be liberated—just like my brother.”

“I will clarify for you the unfortunate circumstances that occurred in Cyprus. I realize that the actions of Rome and the
death of your brother must be cause for some mystification. You see, my enemies in Rome needed to be rid of me. They cannot
tolerate a vocal and persuasive critic. The great man Marcus Tullius Cicero is next, of course. They will banish him, somehow.”

“What is your meaning?” asked the king.

“It is very simple. Caesar has an agenda of legislation he wishes to pass this year. I am against him in every cause. Therefore
I must be got rid of, and therefore, he and his gangster, Clodius, concocted the charges of piracy against your brother, giving
them an excuse to send me off to Cyprus to pick his treasures dry. It is my duty, distasteful as it is. At least I shall perform
my services without lining my own pockets.”