Page 93 of Cleopatra
“And you do not?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I think that if the gods walked among us so freely, then they would bless those more in need of fortune.”
“You do not think the Pharaoh of Egypt requires fortune?”
“From what I hear she has enough.” There was a smile in his voice that blunted the insult in his words.
“The gods choose their vessels, do they not?”
“Yes.” The man laughed, a cheerful sound that brought an involuntary grin to my face. “It may be envy that twists my tongue. Caesar has yet to erect a statue of me.”
“And who are you to be worthy of such a boon?” My curiosity tugged on his gaze and he looked at me. For the first time I could see him in his entirety.
The man’s face was leaner than I’d expected, being set upon such a broad body. He was pretty more than he was handsome—a countenance made for oil paintings.
As he turned to me, I could tell from his gait that he was a soldier, if the sword by his waist was not enough of a clue.
“Marcus Antonius,” he said.
I recalled the name. He had been Caesar’s second in command during the Battle of Pharsalus, which saw Pompey’s army sacked.
“And, priestess, what shall I call you?”
I looked down at myself, realising he believed me to be an acolyte of Venus. Without my robe and crown, the simple underdress I wore could easily have been mistaken for the robes of a priestess.
“You may call me Selene.” I waited for the moment when he would recognise my face in Venus’s, but he did not see me for the queen I was. That was perhaps the most precious thing about Antonius; I was Selene to him before I was Cleopatra. The name was false, but the person who bore it was not. Cleopatra was a Ptolemy, a queen. She was Egypt. Selene was just a woman.
Antonius turned back to the statue.
“You must forgive me, Selene. A tribute such as this is to be envied. To live in gold and bronze once your soul has departed this world is an immeasurable gift.”
Back then I believed as he did. I had already been deified by my people, and this statue would go on to immortalise my divinity so future generations would know of it.
But now I think of Venus de Milo, whose marble stare has lasted millennia; limbs shorn from her body, earlobes lost beneath earth and stone. Time has taken its tithe, as has the memory of the people. Who was the woman who captured Alexandros of Antioch’s heart? Was she loved, like Caesar loved me? Aphrodite, they call her—but I know that is not her name. Is it better to be forgotten, or remembered with ill repute, my spirit ignored by men as inconsequential?
I am glad that gold statue was lost in the centuries that separate the woman I was then—yearning for idolisation—and the one I have come to be.
“I would have a thousand statues carved in my name if Caesar would only will it,” the man continued. He spoke as though the conversation was concluding, but I was not ready for him to leave. There was something about this man that made me want to know the whole of him.
“What god would you honour if you were in the Queen’s place?” I asked.
“I should imagine my likeness is best captured in the god Mars.”
I was taken aback. I knew very little about the man in front of me, but he did not conjure the bloodthirsty god of war.
He must have sensed my surprise.
“You think not?” he said, raising a brow.
“I do not mean to presume, but your aspect does not align with what I know of that deity.”
“Tell me, then, Selene, fair of moonlight, who am I?”
I looked him up and down, scrutinising him like he had my statue. His blue eyes danced with a hint of mischief. Despite the rigidity of his stance, he held his arms clasped behind his back, opening up his chest as if ready to embrace at a moment’s notice. He hummed softly as he awaited my answer, as though keeping time with music only he could hear. I imagined he was a capable dancer, and if not, that he’d still enjoy the rhythm of it, spinning with abandon.
Bes, I thought—god of pleasure. But I did not want to give away my true nature by invoking the Egyptian god, so I called on a deity he would more readily know.
“Dionysus.”
