Page 92 of Cleopatra

My skin felt flushed and I pulled at the purple cloak Caesar had gifted me for the occasion, letting it fall to the ground. Then I plucked out the pins knotting my hair at the nape of my neck. The smaller braids that wound through my curls tumbled down my back.

Finally, I pulled off my crown, setting it on the stone wall that surrounded a small reflecting pool.

It was only then that I felt like I could breathe.

I took some slow breaths until the world around me stilled.

When I no longer felt as if I were sailing across the Nile, I looked around me.

The Forum was a beautiful complex of temples and courtyards. Newly completed, it still smelled of setting mortar. I bent down and trailed my hand through the water of the reflecting pool. My image shimmered in the moonlight, sending ripples through the pond.

I brought my wet hands to my face and rubbed the kohl from my eyes.

When I looked back, I didn’t recognise the reflection. My lips were swollen and stained red from the wine. The kohl I had wiped away had left dark rings on the skin beneath my eyes, and my braids cast a patterned shadow across my jaw, emphasising the sharpness of the bone.

My skin was more burnished than it had been in Egypt, as Rome’s more temperate climate lent itself to more evenings sitting beneath the warmth of the sun. I ran my fingers along the dark freckles that dusted the bridge of my broad nose. I had not seen them since I was a carefree and reckless child, running wild in the summer heat.

There was a cry behind me and I jerked upright, spinning on my heel. The movement caused my brain to rattle against my skull and I clutched it in agony.

When I felt I could focus my eyes again, I was mollified to see that the sound wasn’t a person in pain, merely a couple of wine-merry soldiers taking pleasure in each other beneath a mulberry tree. The fallen ripe fruit, crushed beneath their bodies, scented the air with a sweet, sickly aroma and I felt my stomach lurch.

“Mint, I need mint,” I murmured to myself, but Charmion had left with my medicine bag.

The temples will have it.

With one hand on my head and the other cradling my stomach, I cursed the wine and my own gluttony as I slipped into the nearest temple.

Fire flickered in torches along the wall as I swept through the entranceway. The altar was adorned with a large statue, but my gaze was fixed on the incense by its feet.

I rummaged through the offerings and basins of perfumed water until I found a few sprigs of mint.

I placed them on my tongue and chewed slowly. After some time, I felt it calm the churning of my stomach.

“She is beautiful, is she not?” A figure moved beside me and I gasped.

The stranger stood to my left, looking up at the statue. I followed his gaze, appreciating the sculpture for the first time.

Incredibly, the woman was made entirely of gold. She was intricately crafted, the contours of her column dress so detailed they looked like a breeze would shift them. Her face was cast to the side, displaying a single pearl earring in her lobe. Finely carved braids were knotted at the base of the neck, and in her arms she held a cherub, small and plump. And though not all her features were visible, it was as if I were looking in the reflecting pool once more.

The statue was of me.

I swallowed the last remnants of the mint in my mouth, but no words came forth.

“The goddess Venus holding Cupid,” the man said. “They say she has been made in the likeness of Caesar’s mistress, Cleopatra.”

“Mistress”: I smarted at the term. We have not spoken much on Calpurnia, but know that I thought of her little, save in moments like these. Caesar had told me I was his wife in all ways—and that was enough for me. If only it had been enough for those around us.

“His mistress must be a worthy muse,” I replied.

“I wonder what the goddess thinks of her new face,” he said. The man stepped closer to the statue and I realised that his wide shoulders and height would be of the same size as it, should he too stand on a plinth. As he peered at the sculpture, I felt as if my own features were being scrutinised.

“Perhaps she sees the creation as an honour,” I said lightly.

“Perhaps it is Cleopatra who should see it that way,” he rejoined.

“I’m sure she does.”

“Caesar believes her to be Venus in the realm of men.”