Page 103 of Cleopatra

“Not that having you near helped my husband,” I said, and he flinched as if struck.

“I am sorry,” he said, bowing his head and retreating.

Caesarion clutched my hand and I looked down at the little fingers in my palm. Within them he held so many of my and Caesar’s hopes for the future. I was never ambitious in the way Arsinoe was. I ruled in service to Egypt—who, like the gods above, bound me beyond obligation. Egypt was my keeper, as I was hers, and I could not deny my son the same privilege. A Roman and an Egyptian. A king of two realms.

“He will rule better than both of us,” Caesar had foretold.

Then why did you omit him from your will, Julius?

Grief fortified my resolve. “I won’t give up, you know,” I called after Antonius, who looked back at me as he reached the doorway. I continued, “Caesarion is the heir of Julius and I will not let history forget it.”

Antonius nodded once. “Fear not—no son of Caesar will be lost to time.”

And then he left me to my grief.

—

The next morning we left Caesar’s estate for the last time. As we made our way across the city to the harbour, we passed another litter—a rarity so early in the morning.

The two transits crossed paths and I peered into the window of the other.

The woman inside was veiled, but she parted the silk to look at me as we passed. Time stood still as I looked into the red-rimmed eyes of Calpurnia.

Caesar’s wife and I had orbited each other but had never met. She resided in a different villa on the opposite side of the city. I thought little of her, and I presume she thought little of me.

History will claim we hated each other, envied one another. But in that moment I saw nothing beyond a woman hurting. A kindred spirit.

She nodded to me, and I to her. That simple gesture lifted the haze of grief and I could see more clearly.

I thought of her often after that. It comforted me to know someone else had loved him, treasured him, as I had.

—

The journey back to Egypt was dire. I was afflicted by seasickness from the violence of the storms that plagued us, and no amount of mint could subdue it. Heartbreak also stole my sleep, and by the time we reached the shores of Egypt, I was a mere outline of my former self.

I became short-tempered with everyone, but with Ptolemy most of all.

Where grief had made a shadow of me, guilt had claimed my brother.

I cannot fathom the burden of knowing a death before it happens. I never asked Ptolemy how many times it had happened to him. I had only witnessed it rarely, and even then, only cared if it affected those I knew.

But in my current condition I was not able to empathise. Instead, I chose to deepen his guilt by focusing on the flaws in his gift.

“What use is your power that it is so weak as not to warn you in the days prior? Does your god not favour you as he should?” I said to him, my mouth twisted in frustration. I had been drinking Roman wine, as it had proved to be the only way sleep found me.

“My gift does not work like that, sister,” he replied, like he had every other time I’d sought to apply blame. Though my brother was now fifteen, I found I still barely knew him. After Theos’s death I had put distance between us, rarely engaging him outside of formal requirements.

“What use is your gift, then?” I stood, swaying a little as I left the dining table.

I found myself in my rooms shortly after.

“Cleo, would you like to say goodnight to Caesarion?” Charmion asked by the door.

I shook my head. In the last few weeks, I had found it too difficult to look into Caesarion’s eyes. They resembled Caesar’s.

And so the days dragged on. I never resumed going to the hospital to help heal the sick and I never left the palace, my grief the only company I desired.

—