Pharaoh by Karen Essex

harming their child.
    “What man would not be pleased?” he asked. He sat up a little, turned on his side, and held out his long arms, waiting for
     her to sink into his chest. When he wrapped his arms around her, she felt him shudder.
    “You are unhappy.”
    “I am thinking of Julia,” he said. He looked away, but she could see that his eyes were watery. “If she and her son had lived-my
     grandson- Pompey would not have come to such a humiliating end.”
    “Then let
our
son be that force for unity,” she said, and she hoped that she did not sound as if she were pleading.
    He said nothing, but continued to hold her to his chest.
    “Think on the meaning of it, my love,” she said. “Think of what he might represent to the world.”
    “I have considered all that,” he replied with none of the rapture that reflected her own thoughts. “But it will not be so
     easy as you think. You do not know the obstacles that await you in my country. They won’t take it well.”
    “Opinion can be changed.”
    “Ah, but not so laws.”
    “Laws are made by mortals. You have passed enough interesting legislation to know that,” she said.
    “I must go to sleep now,” he whispered in her ear.
    “Shall I have an artist sketch your likeness so that I may someday show it to our son?” She allowed a bit of coyness to invade
     her question.
    “You must learn to eradicate doubt, Kleopatra, or you shall not make a good mother to our boy.”
    “May I still not know your plan?”
    “Now more than ever, it is crucial that you do not. But mark the words of Caesar. By this time next week, we shall be rid
     of at least a few of our most pressing problems.”
    He drifted off to sleep, leaving her vulnerable, ignorant of what he would do next, and praying to the gods that she had not
     been a naive girl all along, believing the tender words of an inveterate diplomat and seducer.
    She did not sleep that night, or the next, or the next. She lay awake stroking her stomach and praying to the goddess. After
     Caesar had gone, she roused the priest in the middle of the night, and had him make a small sacrifice. Alarmed at her urgency
     and groggy with sleep, the priest had his attendants light the torches in the temple and bring in a small goat. Its entrails
     were the image of good health, he assured her, and so Her Majesty’s intentions were honored by the goddess.
    Kleopatra tried to be consoled by this analysis, but she had never felt so alone. Her supporters and Charmion were trapped
     behind enemy lines. She was entirely dependent upon Caesar’s goodwill and authority, and besides his cryptic word and his
     good but implacable humor, she had no solid assurance that she might rely on him. His men might as easily murder her in her
     bed as protect her if her sister’s soldiers burst through the barricades and into the palace. Why should they stop an assault
     on her? Some would consider it a service to Rome to slayCaesar’s foreign mistress-especially if it were known that she was carrying his child. If Caesar had already guessed, others
     may have, too.
    She passed the rest of the night with her hands on her stomach talking to the boy, calling him young Caesar, telling him her
     plans for his future, who his mother was, who his father was, his ancestors. She recounted tales of Alexander, from his boyhood
     through his conquests of kingdoms and nations. From the library she sent for a copy of the story of Alexander hunting the
     lion and read it to her unborn child.
    “Alexander’s father, too, was a great warrior, but never forget that Alexander surpassed him in achievements. So might you,
     difficult as it may be for your tiny self to apprehend. And Alexander’s mother struck fear in the hearts of men, as apparently
     your own mother has done to her own brothers and those who advise them. And I shall do so even more and with greater ferocity
     when you are a grown man and rule at my side.” Kleopatra smiled at the thought of