Page 86 of Cleopatra

“I will go to her.”

The crowd parted to let me through.

“Is she breathing?” I asked the nearest noble, who nodded. The anticipation of the stunt made my heart flutter.

This had to work. I was tired of chasing the rumours that had haunted my reign. This needed to end the whispers.

Isis, guide me. Let this ruse prove true. Despite everything, I never questioned my faith. Even now, when most people’s belief would have begun to waver, I begged for her veneration.

“Allow me to heal her,” I said loudly. I caught Serapion’s eye as I lowered myself to the floor beside Charmion. He watched with great interest, his chin protruding like a turtle’s head from its shell.

Charmion’s eyelids fluttered and her lips were slack and drooling. She was always the greatest of players.

I needed to draw out the moment. This healing required some thrilling details in order to go from story to legend.[*]

“Bring me vinegar,” I said.

While I waited, I placed my hands over Charmion’s chest.

“Isis, grant me the power to heal this woman,” I intoned, projecting my voice to draw in the last few stragglers from the periphery of the hall.

“Pharaoh.” It was Serapion who handed me the vinegar, his eyes pensive as he watched my power at work.

I plucked a pearl earring from my lobe and dropped it into the cup. An heirloom from generations past, it was believed to have been sent through the Silk Roads by an emperor in the east. I could not use common medicines for the healing; the potion had to be impossible to replicate with herbs or tinctures—I did not want the false recipe to feature in future homes as a cure for all.

I swirled the contents of the cup before raising it above my head. “Lady of glory, mother of life, bless me this night, fill me with light. Vinegar for my tears, pearl for my bones.” I lowered the drink to my lips and swallowed the pearl whole.

The room gasped, and I revelled in the overture as I reached the final act.

I bent over Charmion and placed my moistened lips on hers. When I drew back, she was already waking, her breathing settling, her fainting spell gone.

Caesar had watched the proceedings from beside me, his expression neutral. I was worried that he had finally recognised Charmion beneath the make-up and costumery. But at her recovery he began to cheer, lifting the room’s voices with him.

“Hail Cleopatra, chosen of Isis! Hail Cleopatra, chosen of Isis!”

Each lie I told was a link on a chain that only I could see. It bound tighter and tighter with each passing day. But in that moment, I relished the sound of my name on many people’s lips.

They called me a god, and for once, I felt like one.

Skip Notes

* I had hoped for the story to spread throughout Egypt, not throughout time. I have Pliny the Elder to thank for that, though by the time he recorded the tale it had been twisted by the lips of Octavian’s court.

Chapter Seventeen

46 BCE

ike all legends, the story of the pearl in vinegar evolved over the years. The Banquet of Cleopatra, your artists have named it, sullying my likeness so crudely. The etchings of the tale lost refinement through time, softening like oil paints on canvas.

But during the early years of my reign, the healing myth endured, silencing the rumours that had blighted my rule.

Peace settled across Egypt. After the siege of Alexandria, Caesar spent the summer by my side, watching our son grow. But his ambition soon drew him away.

Caesar was a warrior first, a dictator second, and a father third. War was his calling, and so when an opportunity arose to seek vengeance against an old enemy, Caesar left Egypt. I do not recount this with any agitation; I knew who he was even before our passion began to blossom. I could have stopped the union then, but I didn’t, not until our love had borne fruit. Still, I wished he could tarry longer.

“Stay another season,” I said, my finger twirling in Caesarion’s curling locks as he slumbered on my chest.

“I cannot let this opportunity pass, Cleopatra. Pharnaces is amassing troops in Zela, and I have the means to intercept him.” He stood a few steps lower than the throne, dressed in his armour, the sword he had once used to kill for me at his waist.