The Gods of War (32 page)

Even as he said it, he knew it was true, but still it astonished him. He had always dreamed of returning in triumph to the city of his birth, to all the honors and rewards he had won over the years. Yet with a word from her, none of it mattered. Perhaps, just for a little while, he could be free of the care and worry that seemed the core of his life. Perhaps he could throw it all off and feel the sun on his face with a beautiful, enrapturing girl who was queen of Egypt.

“I am too old for you,” he said softly, wanting her to deny it.

Cleopatra laughed and kissed him again. “You have shown me you are not!” she said, dropping her hand to his thigh and letting it rest there. He could feel the heat of her hand on his bare skin, and as always, it aroused him unmercifully.

“If we had a child,” she said, “he would inherit Egypt and Rome together. He would be another Alexander.”

Julius looked off into the distance, his mind bright with dreams. “I would give
anything
to see that. I have no other sons,” he said, smiling.

Her hand moved slightly on his thigh, making him catch his breath. “Then pray to your gods that the one I carry is a boy,” she said seriously. He reached for her, but she slipped from his grasp. “When the mourning is finished, I will show you the mysteries of Egypt, in me,” she called over her shoulder.

Julius watched her go in frustration, overwhelmed by her words. He could hardly take in what he had learned and he would have called after her, but she vanished back into the palace with light steps.

         

The noise of celebration in Alexandria was enough to leave the ears of the Romans ringing and numb. Cymbals and horns crashed and moaned on every street and the voices of the people were raised in a great shout of joy to send Ptolemy into the arms of the gods. Julius shuddered at the memory of the final rites he had witnessed.

The boy king's flesh had been dried like old leather when the chanting priests came for him for the last time. Cleopatra had not insisted Julius be there, but he had been drawn to the last ritual, knowing he would never again have the chance to see the secrets of Egyptian death.

He had watched as the priests took a chisel formed of meteoric iron and broke open Ptolemy's lips with a rocking motion across the mouth. Without the translator Cleopatra had sent to him, Julius would have been lost and appalled at the apparent desecration of the body. The man's sibilant whisper into his ear still gave him chills in memory.

“Osiris the king, awake!” the priest had said. “I split open your mouth for you with iron of the gods. Live again, rejuvenated every day, while the gods protect you as their own.”

The fumes of incense had swirled around the tiny figure of the boy king, and when the last rites were complete, the priests had moved outside into the air, to give the news to the city. The tomb had been sealed behind them with bronze, gold, and brass.

The horns had begun then, sounding in their thousands. The noise had built and built and every lamp and brazier was lit, making Alexandria shine under the heavens. The gods would see the light and know one of their own was ready to come to them.

Julius watched the festival of death from the high windows of the royal palace, Brutus at his side. Octavian had gone down into the city to lose himself in drink and women with many of the other officers. On the night of a king's death, there were no taboos, and Julius hoped his men would survive the feasting and debauchery without causing riots. It was probably a vain hope, but the responsibility would be on another's shoulders for a while. Cleopatra's barge rocked in the swell of the port, waiting to take him along the coast. They would have to survive without him until he returned. The news Cleopatra had brought overshadowed anything else.

As if he shared the thought, Brutus spoke, looking out over a city lit as brightly as day. He could sense the strange mood of excitement in Julius, though he could not guess at the reason.

“When will you return, do you know?”

“Before the year ends,” Julius replied. “The legions have their quarters here. They have earned a rest. I have sent letters to Mark Antony in Rome. In a month or so the back pay will come. Let them take houses here, Brutus, while they wait for me. Let them grow fat and sleepy.”

“You know them better than that,” Brutus replied. “We've had to punish two more for looting the temples already. I'll have to take them out into the desert after the first weeks, or anything that can be lifted will vanish from Alexandria. As it is, the markets in Rome will be glutted with artefacts when we return.”

Julius chuckled, and Brutus smiled. The darkest moments of the past seemed to have been forgotten between them, and his strength was returning. By the time the sun rose each day, Brutus had completed an hour of heavy sword practice with Domitius. He had lost some of the speed that had won tournaments, but he was no longer weak. He had not told Julius of a centurion who had sneered at him the day before. Brutus had taken him out to the training yard and beaten the man almost to death.

Perhaps Julius knew, Brutus thought, looking at him.

“Octavian is furious with my return to rank,” Brutus said. “Or because of your pleasure cruise on the Nile. It is difficult to be sure which has annoyed him more.”

Julius shook his head, exasperated. “He wants me to spend my final years in sleepy Senate debates.” He snorted. “I suppose we seem ancient to the younger ones, fit for nothing more than patting each other on the back for past glories.”

Brutus glanced at the alert, trim figure of his general, burnt a dark brown. If anything, Julius had been invigorated by the months in Egypt, no small part of it due to the prospect of peace at last. He and Brutus had suffered decades of war and privation. Perhaps the prize was simply an end to striving. Brutus could not imagine him contemplating cruises if Pompey still lived or Sulla threatened his city.

Brutus could not love the man who had pardoned him at Pharsalus, though when Julius had given him command in Alexandria, he felt a brief, uncluttered joy.

He sighed inwardly. Rome seemed far away, but he knew he should think of the future. There were years ahead to forget the shame of his defection to Pompey. Julius had trusted him with authority and the message would not be lost on the legions. It was time to rebuild a career that should have ended at Pharsalus. After all, Rome had been built by men who had survived defeat.

Brutus looked steadily at Julius, missing the old friendship. There were precious moments when he thought they shared an understanding impossible to voice. Yet without warning, he could feel an old jealousy and a destructive pride. With time, perhaps that too would ease.

“This is an old land,” Julius said suddenly, interrupting Brutus's thoughts. “It could be a second Rome, a twin capital of an empire. I'm not too old to dream of that. I know there is work ahead, but for a little while I want to forget it all and see the Nile with my queen.”

Brutus dropped his head an inch, wondering at the choice of words. “Will you take her back with you?” he asked.

“I think I will,” Julius replied, smiling slowly at the thought. “She brings new life to my bones. With her at my side, I could make an empire to rival Alexander's own. It would be fitting to make his city the second heart of it.”

Brutus felt himself growing cold. “So you will be a king? Like Ptolemy?”

Julius turned to him, his dark eyes seeming to bore into his oldest friend.

“What else would you have me call myself? I am the first in Rome. Rome is first in the world.”

“What of my mother, Servilia? Will you cast her off as you did Pompeia? Or your wife, Calpurnia? Will you divorce her as well?”

Julius hesitated, blind to Brutus's growing anger. “It is too early to plan such things. When I am home, I will do what is necessary. Calpurnia will not resist, I know.”

“The Senate
will
resist your ambition,” Brutus said softly.

Julius laughed. “They would not dare to, my friend. They will honor me and they will honor the queen I bring home. Rome was built on kings. It will be reborn from my line.”

“From your daughter?” Brutus asked.

Julius's eyes were bright as he looked across the city. He gripped the stone windowsill like its owner. “I cannot hold the news, Brutus. It is too much for me. From my
son,
who will be born. The queen is pregnant, and her omen-takers say it will be a boy. A son to rule two empires.” He laughed aloud in wonder. It had to be a boy, he thought. The gods would not be so cruel.

Brutus took a step away from him, his calm shattering. What friendship could survive such a relentless ambition? Brutus saw that Julius had not sated his appetite in Egypt. He would return to Rome with greater dreams than any one of those they had destroyed. Not Sulla, not Cato, not even Pompey had reached so far.

“The Republic . . .” Brutus began, shocked into stammering.

Julius shook his head. “. . . was a glorious experiment. I honor it, but it has served its purpose. When I return to Rome, we will begin an empire.”

                                                      
CHAPTER
30
                                                      

T
he Nile bore them south through lands made lush by its waters. Birds soared and shrieked in their thousands, rising into the air with the passing of the royal barge. White egrets stalked amongst cattle as they made their way down to the shallows in the evenings. In such a setting, Julius allowed the cares of years to fall from him. He had not suffered a fit for many months and he felt strong. Rome was far away and he lost himself in Cleopatra.

They made love as the whim took them, by day or night. He had found it difficult at first to ignore the slaves on the barge, with no more than a canopy of fine silk to protect the queen from their gaze. She who had been attended from birth had laughed at his embarrassment, prodding at his dignity until he had slipped the robe from her shoulders and kissed her skin, turning her laughter into a deeper rhythm of breath.

There were eight oars on either side of the barge to ease them through the waters. The blades had been dipped in silver and shone like sunken coins as they sliced beneath the surface. The Nile wound through valleys and vast flats and plains as if it had no end, and there were times when Julius could imagine the journey continuing forever.

In the evenings, he talked for hours with her astrologer, Sosigenes, who had predicted the birth of a son. The man had hesitated to speak to the Roman leader at first, but as the weeks slid by, Julius fell naturally into conversation with him. He was hungry for confirmation of the omens Sosigenes had cast and though at first he doubted the power of augury, his hope turned slowly to belief. The Greek had a sharp mind and Julius spent many hours discussing the course of planets, the seasons, and even the calendar with him. Sosigenes had struggled not to show his contempt for the Roman system and said even the Egyptian years were flawed. By his calculations, 365 days was almost correct, needing only another day in every fourth spring to be perfect. Julius demanded proof of his assertions and the man rose to the challenge, covering the deck with sheets of papyrus marked in charcoal until Julius was dizzy with the flights of planets and stars. In Rome, the high priest took or added days each year, but Sosigenes' love of simplicity and order was appealing. Julius wondered how the Senate would react if he imposed such a system on the citizens of Rome.

As Cleopatra's pregnancy progressed she felt the heat more fiercely and spent the afternoons in sleep behind the awnings. Julius was left to stare for hours at the sinister shapes of crocodiles amongst the bulrushes, waiting patiently for an ibis or calf to come too close. Seeing them snatch at prey was the only touch of fire to interrupt the long dream of the Nile. The silver oars rose and fell, only still when the breeze filled the purple sail above their heads. Julius had Sosigenes tell him stories when the sun was too hot to bear. He let the legends wash over him until he felt he was a part of the drifting landscape, part of its future.

In the cool of the predawn, Cleopatra's slaves bathed and dressed her, painting her eyes in black kohl that lifted up at the edges. Julius was naked and lay on one elbow, watching the ritual. He was no longer uncomfortable with the slave girls, though he had refused Cleopatra's offer for them to entertain him more intimately. He did not think they were unwilling. In fact, the girl dressing her queen had made her interest evident as she bathed him with cloths on the deck. More of the cool water had drifted across her full breasts than down his body and she had laughed at his reaction, teasing him. Perhaps it was the heat, or the seminaked presence of the slaves, but he felt erotically charged by the days on the Nile, refreshed by swimming where the water was clear, rubbed down with oil by skillful hands, fed as well as a breeding bull. He ran a hand lightly down his stomach, feeling the muscle there. The dreaming life was like water to a dry soul after so long at war. Yet even there, with the sun rising, he knew he could not rest forever. The itch to act was always at the back of his mind, growing daily. Rome waited for him and it took a greater and greater effort to ignore the call.

He could see the swelling of the child she would bear. He lay entranced until it was hidden from view by a cloth so thin he could see the line of her legs through it. When she came to look down on him, she raised her eyebrows at the smile that played on his face.

“Will you be walking naked amongst the people then?” she asked sweetly.

Julius chuckled. “I was watching you and thinking that I am going to wake up suddenly and be in some tent somewhere, with the battle horns blowing and my officers roaring for one last charge.”

She did not smile at his words. She had heard him call out too many times in his sleep and woken to see his face twisted in pain and anger. He did not remember his dreams, or at least they did not seem to trouble him in the day. Her eyes traveled over the scars on his body and she shook her head.

“Dress, Caesar, and see something new,” she said.

He opened his mouth to ask the question, but she put a hand down to his lips and then left him alone to be dressed by her bright-eyed slaves. With a sigh, he rose and beckoned for them to bring his lightest robe.

When he came on deck he found the barge was edging toward the shore. A town like many others reached to the water's edge, with a small wooden dock extending out into the brown waters. Red geese flew honking overhead as he saw the planking had been laid with fresh rushes in a path leading away from the river. Hundreds of people lined the shore in a blaze of colored robes, and every eye seemed to be on him. Julius stared back uncomfortably as the crew worked the steering oars to bring them in to dock. A platform wide enough for a rank of legionaries was brought up and attached to the side, resting in the clean path.

Cleopatra walked to it and the crowd knelt in the mud, pressing their heads down as she stepped onto the land. Drums sounded on the edges and when she looked back at Julius he saw the cold features that had dominated the army in Alexandria. He had fallen out of the habit of wearing a sword on the river, and his fingers twitched at empty air. He followed her, his sandals crunching on the rushes. When he reached her side, she turned to him and smiled.

“I wanted you to see this,” she said.

Her bodyguard of ten clattered onto the rickety dock behind them, taking up positions. She walked through the crowd with Julius and he saw that the line of kneeling men and women extended right through the town.

“How did they know you were coming?” he murmured.

“It is the anniversary of the day I became queen,” she said. “They know when it is time.”

The town was clean and well kept, though it seemed deserted, with every man, woman, and child kneeling on the road. Cleopatra reached down to touch them at intervals, and in her wake he saw tears of gratitude.

The path of rushes ended at the entrance of a tiny square, swept meticulously clean of dust. Her guards moved ahead to search a temple of red marble that gleamed in the morning sun. The silence was eerie and Julius was reminded of a deserted village in Spain where he had once ridden with Servilia. He had seen a statue of Alexander there and it was unnerving to have the experience echoed in the very lands of the king.

He found his thoughts drifting, mourning all that had been lost since that other time and place. The last vestiges of innocence had been ground out of him in Gaul and Greece. Perhaps that was why he had shed tears at the sight of Pompey's dead face. Julius remembered the young boy he had once been, but it was all too far away to know him well. His father, Marius, Tubruk; they were all shadows. There had been too many tragedies, too many memories closed and barred away, somewhere deep. He had dug a wolf trap for Suetonius and let him live. If this Egyptian morning had given him the chance again, he would have killed him without a second thought.

Perhaps it was age that brought the hardness, or the brutal choices of a campaign. He had pulled men back, knowing it would mean the death of other loyal soldiers. He had saved the many at the expense of the few. He had directed surgeons to those who had a chance to survive. He had even sent good men to Pompey's camp, knowing they could not deliver his message and live. He thought such cold decisions seeped into the bone after a while, numbing the joy of life. Even the sun of Egypt could not reach him, though Cleopatra could. He found his eyes were stinging, inexplicably.

The guards returned and Julius and Cleopatra walked slowly into the gloom, their steps echoing under a domed roof, high above them. It was clearly a place of worship and Julius wondered why she had brought him there. The walls were decorated with reliefs of star patterns in yellow agate, darker lines running through the stone like veins of blood. To his astonishment, he thought he could hear the mewing of cats, and as he looked for the source of the sound he saw a dozen of them padding out toward Cleopatra.

Murmuring words in Egyptian, she reached down and let them rub themselves against her hands. “Are they not beautiful?” she said, kneeling in their midst.

Julius could only nod, wondering which unfortunate had the task of cleaning the marble floors after them. She saw his expression and her laughter echoed in the space.

“They are the guardians of the temple, Julius. Can you see their claws? Who would dare to enter here against such hunters?”

As she spoke, the cats preened and purred around her, content. She stood gently and they followed her, their tails waving lazily upright.

In the far end of the temple was a statue that filled a concave wall. Julius glanced up at it and missed his step in confusion. It towered above them both, so that Cleopatra's head came up to the knee of the white stone.

Julius could only stare from one to the other. In creamy marble, he saw the features of the queen staring down at him. The statue held a boy child in her arms and looked outwards in pride. It was an expression he knew well.

Cleopatra saw his upwards gaze and smiled. “This is Isis, Caesar, mother of Horus, whom she holds.”

“With your face,” Julius said wonderingly.

“The temple is a thousand years old, before Alexander came here. Yet she lives in me.”

He looked at her as the cats rubbed themselves against her legs.

“My son will be a god, Julius; your son. Do you understand now?”

He did not say that the face of the statue was fractionally different as he studied it. The woman in stone was a little older than Cleopatra, and as the first shock faded he could see the line of the jaw was different. The eyes were wider spaced and yet . . . it was astonishing. She nodded, pleased with his reaction.

“Will you pray to her, with me?” she said.

Julius frowned. “If she is in you, how can you pray?” he asked.

Her teeth showed as she grinned. “So very blunt, Roman. I should have expected it. It is a mystery, is it not? I carry the flame hidden in flesh, yet she is still there. When I travel the dead path, it will be a return, not a beginning. Understand that and you understand me. It would please me to have you pray to her. She will bless our son and keep him safe.”

Julius could not refuse as she gazed at him. He knelt and bowed his head, pleased there were no other eyes to see him do it.

         

The scribes' quarter of the royal palace at Alexandria was almost a town in itself, with thousands of scholars working within its walls. After the destruction of the great library, the lamps were lit all night and day as the written works of masters were brought in from all over Egypt and Greece and copied with painstaking care.

One wing of the sprawling annex had been taken over by the Roman administration, and Brutus had claimed the best rooms for himself. At his order, legion craftsmen had stripped out the statuary and gold, crating and packing it where possible to be shipped home. In its place, they lined the walls in light, carved oak, building a Roman sanctuary. New barracks had been built for the Tenth and Fourth, after one too many incidents of trophy-taking in the city. Brutus had let them run a little wild at first, but it was clear that discipline was suffering after only a few weeks and he had been forced to impose the harsh order they knew best. There had been some who complained and even a petition signed by idiots who ended the day of its delivery marching out to desert postings. The city was quiet and, in the absence of Julius, Brutus was thoroughly enjoying his freedom.

Those men who had taken advantage of his weakness after Pharsalus found themselves shoveling excrement in the hot sun until they collapsed. He had taken care to remember every face and took enormous satisfaction from giving them the dirtiest tasks he could find. More than one had suffered from cuts and scratches that quickly became infected. Brutus had made a point of visiting them in the sickrooms, as any other conscientious officer would. Good Roman sewers would run under Alexandria by the time Julius returned.

In the meeting room, Brutus watched Octavian carefully, enjoying his struggle.

“. . . and I am passing the problem on to you, General,” Brutus continued. “Julius has summoned these new legions to Egypt and they must be fed, paid, and found barracks. If you are incapable of carrying out your duty, I will—”

“He said nothing to me about them,” Octavian interrupted, making Brutus frown.

The tension between them had not lessened since Julius's departure. At first, Brutus had thought Octavian would refuse the authority Julius had placed in him. He still remembered the younger man's threats on a Greek dock, and part of Brutus wanted Octavian to dare them again now that he had his strength. The confrontation had not come, though the effort of will had been perfectly visible to the other senior officers. Octavian seemed content to walk a fine line between duty and insolence, and Brutus was willing to play the game for as long as Octavian could bear it. It was always easier to press down than to push up.