Ptolemy XV. Caesarion E-Book

Patrizio Corda

• Herausgeber: Patrizio Corda
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

47 BC. - Disowned by his father Julius Caesar, Ptolemy XV, who will go down in history as Caesarion, grows up in the shadow
of his mother Cleopatra and her new consort, Marcus Antonius. The pain of that discovery is partly
eased by the certainty that one day he will be the one to reign unchallenged over Egypt. But when everything falls apart and
Augustus, Caesar's true chosen one, sets out to conquer Egypt Cleopatra forces him to seek
shelter outside of the kingdom. Tired of the family situation and frustrated by his powerlessness, Ptolemy decides to
disobey and flee, ending up in a completely different reality from the one in which he grew up.
Meanwhile, in Rome, there is someone else struggling with his own feelings.

Leseprobe

Patrizio Corda

Ptolemy XV. Caesarion

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PTOLEMY XV. CAESARION

Patrizio Corda

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

THANKS

Literary property reserved ©2024 Patrizio Corda

PTOLEMY XV. CAESARION

Patrizio Corda

To my family

I

Born in a cage

Alexandria, November 48 BC.

"...and it would be mine?"

Not so much Caesar's words, but the tone in which he had spoken them struck Cleopatra like a stab in the chest. Instinctively, she was driven to protect her own belly with her tapered hands adorned with a multitude of rings.

Always resolute and rational in times of difficulty, now her lover seemed out of control, even exasperated. As if that happy news had been nothing more than a new obstacle on an increasingly uphill road.

Because they were besieged, literally barricaded in that building.

The reality of the facts was that.

Caesar's plans to divide power between her and her brother Ptolemy XIII had failed. The latter, stirred up by the powerful eunuch had decided to claim the whole of Egypt for himself, effectively ousting her from contention even in the wake of her love affair with the Roman. And this had led to a full-blown civil war. He had to admit that Caesar's nervousness, prowling like a caged lion around that small room with his hands behind his back, was ultimately justified.

She saw him turn sharply toward her, and peer deeply into her with those eyes of his to which one could not help but yield.

There was a reason why that man had managed to get so far, to the point where he became, single-handedly, simultaneously a threat and the only salvation for Rome.

And that motif came back to her whenever she crossed his eyes, burning with a flame impossible to describe or deny.

Only then did Cleopatra realize that she had not yet answered the question from earlier. Here was the reason for that look.

Caesar demanded an answer.

But in truth, he was always demanding. Whatever it was.

"Yes," he murmured, marveling at her docility. "It can only be yours. I have had no other man but you for months."

"Do you realize what that means?" he retorted, almost scolding her. A reMarcus that humbled her to the core.

No man could ever have treated her like that.

But Caesar was not a man. He was more.

"Is not our beleaguered condition sufficient?" resumed these, this time gesturing a few feet from Cleopatra's face. "Do you hear the cries? Do you hear them? They are out there, and they want us. And until my men get here, we will be forced to live in this miserable way. I, Gaius Julius Caesar, dictator of Rome, and you Cleopatra, ruler of Egypt by divine right! Do you think such news could ever bring people to our side?"

Cleopatra barely lifted her face, biting her lip.

But Caesar did not give her time to speak.

"No!" he ranted, throwing a punch at the wall whose echoes spread around them. "It will only make it worse, because the people will take to hating me more and more, extending that feeling to you as well! I will be judged as the invader, the man who had no problem seducing the queen moved by lust for power. And you," he continued, pointing at her furiously, "you will forever be remembered as a weakling, a woman called to rule Egypt but unable to resist the lure of the flesh, despite having the fate of a people in your hands! This is what will happen!"

That said, he continued to circle around her, his steps frantic and cadenced. Cleopatra saw the muscles of his face tense under the rosy skin as he clenched his jaw, his muzzle contracted into a sullen grimace she had never seen from him.

Caesar was gnawed by thoughts, but perhaps also by fears.

He, who never had any.

And this was also her fault, for one day she would give birth to that child within her. A life she had initially welcomed with all the joy in the world, the fruit of that new love she had always considered sincere beyond political motives. Never had she doubted her partner.

Going so far as to completely ignore the real and public consequences of that union of theirs.

Factors that Caesar, on the other hand, had always kept in mind.

That's why he was the man he was.

And that is why at that moment he seemed to her as unreachable as ever. For him, even in the abandonment of feelings, it was impossible to forget his goals, alliances to be made, future battles, strategies.

A tireless calculator. A genius, but also a soul incapable of getting fully involved in what made life worth living. He bowed his head, and looked at his belly again.

What would become of the future?

Would they have been able to end that captivity?

And if that had happened, what would have happened between her and Caesar?

Was he truly the father he desired for that creature?

She isolated herself completely, becoming deaf to her man's expletives, hisses filled with frustration that cleaved the air.

There was no certainty of the future.

But she knew she couldn't do anything but remain connected to him.

Emotionally and politically.

He had no other choice.

Falling in love with a man devoted solely to the pursuit of power also implied this. Realizing, one day, that you were merely his tool.

Which he could have endured for himself, perhaps, but would never accept for his son.

If he thought about tomorrow, he could not even imagine it.

But she knew for a fact that the person who would suffer the most from that situation would be the very person she was still carrying.

II

A name

Alexandria, June 23, 47 B.C.

If they had seen her, in the condition she was in!

She was drenched in sweat, on her lips the taste of spilled blood from how much she had bitten herself in contractions. On her face not even a shadow of the sumptuous makeup that had made her dazzling, almost divine in her most celebrated public appearances.

She was broken, drained of all energy.

But he was happy.

In his arms he held a bloody bundle.

And between the folds of the cloth, she watched her son's face emerge.

He was tiny. How could such a small, slender creature manage to squash an adult body like his?

But the memory of the pain she suffered instantly dissolved the moment she lingered on the very slight slits that were his eyes. Their shape already reminded her of her own.

The complexion of the skin, already olive although still cloaked in physiological redness, was also his.

Undoubtedly, the baby had inherited most of its physical features from her.

He wished, on the other hand, that he had not taken on the worst aspects of his father's character.

Although the latter, for the umpteenth time in his life, had emerged victorious against all odds. Eventually, Caesar's men had arrived and managed to free the dictator from his captivity by breaking the siege of Alexandria.

After a series of minor conflicts, Caesar and his brother Ptolemy had come to a showdown at the Battle of the Nile.

For Ptolemy it had been a catastrophe.

The latter had even died while trying to flee.

He had ended up swallowed by the very waters to which he had entrusted his life. When Caesar had then returned to Alexandria as triumphant, not a single rebel soldier had dared to question his authority. Automatically, these had ended up accepting him and acknowledging his victory.

Thus Cleopatra had once again seen herself elected queen of her land, albeit in partnership with the young Ptolemy XIV, also her brother.

In order to perpetuate the cult of the Ptolemaic dynasty, Cleopatra had been forced, albeit in an undeniably interesting state, to marry the young Ptolemy just 12 years old.

This was despite the fact that everyone knew whose child she was carrying. She would never forget the stares brimming with revulsion and judgment that had settled on her that day.

Glances that also tasted, however, of helplessness, of an inability to move against her now that her position had strengthened.

Ultimately, good fortune had returned to smile on all of them. She had recovered the throne of Egypt, and thanks to Caesar she had also managed to get rid of a good part of her detractors.

She felt no sorrow for her missing brother. Ptolemy had turned against her, oblivious to their blood bond.

He had been warping behind her back, aspiring to eliminate her so he could rule alone.

For her, although it was a bitter thing to think, he had long since died. But not in vain.

His rebellion was not only a symbol of a crisis that was foiled in a roguish way, but also a warning for the future.

He would have to watch out for anyone, even that teenage brother he had to marry, whom he kept out of any government business because of his young age.

In the future, he too might have harbored dangerous ambitions.

She would be ready that day.

She would be ruthless and especially equipped for any eventuality. With Caesar by her side, it was impossible to lose.

But above all, he thought as he gently stroked the child's face, it was impossible for him to be separated from the dictator.

Especially now that a new life had blossomed, representing what had been their union.

A sentimental and carnal union, much more than a cold partnership dictated by political exigencies.

That was their son.

Great things awaited that fragile and tame infant who timidly entered life. He was the fruit of the meeting of the two greatest civilizations ever.

His own, the Egyptian one, the oldest and most glorious of all, which had its roots in dark and remote times that harkened back to the dawn of humanity itself.

Caesar's, on the other hand, which seemed destined for eternal empire, making the future its own and wishing to place every people in the world under itself.

Yes, it was like that.

As she continued to cradle him, Cleopatra became convinced that the little one deserved a name that fully expressed his quasi-divine nature, and that recalled the meeting of those two worlds.

It was an arduous undertaking.

So much so that she thought one thing: that perhaps one name would not be enough to encapsulate so much within herself.

Two would have been needed.

III

Divine blood

Rome, July 46 B.C.

His footsteps echoed everywhere, reverberations chasing through the air cleaving the sacred stillness of the temple of Venus Genetrix.

Cleopatra raised her gaze slowly, and stared at that face so similar to her own that yet said nothing about her.

Stirring up a huge stir, Caesar had commanded that in that same temple dedicated to the goddess who had given birth to his gens a statue be erected with her likeness but associating her in every way with Isis.

The choice to enfranchise an Egyptian deity to a Roman one was greeted as an act of unprecedented insolence, as well as yet more evidence of how Caesar was increasingly convinced to centralize all power over himself, completing his absolutist turn that had begun with his assumption of the title of dictator.

For her part, Cleopatra should have been delighted with the gesture, if not ecstatic. A statue in her honor, in a place so sacred to the Romans had seemed to all as the formalization of their political partnership, as well as their love affair.

But she did not feel satisfied or grateful at all.

He wondered for a moment what if it was not his fault.

Was it really so difficult to impress a queen?

She could not give herself an answer. But on the other hand, she lost herself in pondering what had finally led her to bear that title.

His crown had come at the cost of endless suffering.

Amidst exiles, constant suspicions and conspiracies hatched by her own family members, she had had to fight throughout her still young existence solely to have what she was entitled to by dynastic right recognized. And divine.

And despite her determination, she had succeeded only by relying on Caesar, effectively letting him crown her.

The same man she had believed she loved and trusted blindly, putting feelings ahead of the cold calculations that had sealed their alliance in the beginning.

Now yes, she was queen of Egypt.

But she felt neither loved nor recognized as such.

Yet Caesar had honored both her and her brother Ptolemy XIV with the title of friendly rulers of the Roman people.

Why then could she not stop seeing herself as relegated to the margins, even reduced to a trophy whose dazzling beauty was only occasionally flaunted?

He bit his lip.

Deep down, she felt devoured by the idea that she had driven away every night since she had come to Italy.

She too had fallen a slave to Caesar.

She had no power at all, so much so that she was relegated to that luxurious residence on the Janiculum Hill without being able to do anything but take pleasure in the bevy of slaves at her disposal, spending her days in tedium.

In that view, even the wonderful and imposing statue in front of her took on the appearance of a mere content.

And the same was true of all the gifts, honors, and luxuries that Caesar bestowed on her.

All the things he had never asked for, and had no need for.

She desired only two things.

The freedom to be herself, among her true subjects, without feeling constantly hounded by the rancorous stares of the Romans.

And more than anything, that Caesar recognized the child.

Because Ptolemy was his son, however much he denied it.

There was no doubt about it.

But it was impossible to make Gaius Julius Caesar recede from his convictions, just as it was impossible to stop him from accomplishing what he had set out to do.

That was how she had ended up in that miserable condition.

Not even the most beautiful woman in the world, as much as and perhaps more than a goddess, had been able to seduce and soothe the man who had only human features.

In reality Caesar was unreachable, unpredictable, an inexhaustible force of nature that overwhelmed everything, to the point that he could shape the world around him according to his will. And this had also applied to her.

At least, she thought as she tried to console herself, she had been able to see where she had gone wrong, though too late. Behind all those material attentions, latest among them the reconquest of the island of Cyprus in Egypt's name, was the dictator's desire to hold her close to him, but only as a loyal ally to whom he could entrust a portion of the lands under his influence.

The only way to free herself from that captivity that was killing her was to place all her hopes in that child, who was now sleeping peacefully in her room. Away from her and her frustrations, unaware of what would become of him in the future.

If he had lived long enough, he might have been able to earn his place in the world.

Then, she would follow him.

Only then would she really begin to live again, finding herself and breaking those invisible chains.

She had lived a life perpetually in the balance, without certainty, continually drifting away from and then reconnecting with the reigning destiny that was in her blood.

It was time for this to end, for her position to become solid and unquestionable again, with no one to stand in her way. Not even the most powerful and irresistible of men.

And only that small, fragile child could have accomplished such a feat in his name.

The last son of that dynasty destined to survive forever.

Ptolemy XV.

Son of two gods imprisoned in human bodies.

IV

Dynasty

Rome, November 46 B.C.

It was late, but he was not sleepy. There was still too much to do.

Yet in those last few years he had accomplished an incredible amount of feats. What so many had done in the span of their existences, he had managed to accomplish in such a short time.

He let his head fall back, sighing. He barely rubbed her eyes, then ran her hand over her head to search for her hair, which was beginning to whiten as well as thin.

He had always felt that he was competing with the time that was allotted to men. Rest, the idleness that his subjects so loved, was a luxury that was not granted to those who aspired to greatness.

For that he had become Caesar.

Images of the four magnificent triumphs celebrated in Rome for his victories in Pontus, Gaul, Egypt, and Africa flashed through his mind. At last he had been able to give the people what he had promised. Celebrations, gifts, indelible memories.

Moments that would go down in history.

Like the elephants who had paraded up to the Capitol, or like Vercingetorix, the leader of the Gauls who had managed to resist him for so long. That campaign had been decisive for his rise.

That is why he had done everything to keep Vercingetorix alive. He wanted Rome to see what happened to those who opposed Caesar. That great warrior, reduced to a tottering skeleton, had paraded along with a thousand other unfortunates, but it had been clear to everyone from the beginning who it was.

As an enemy, he had made it a macabre trophy.

Yet another in his unstoppable military career.

The legionnaires, who had always supported him, were finally rewarded by receiving lavish sums of money for their services.

From then on, their bond would be unbreakable.

Caesar had always shared with them the hardships of the countryside, the freezing nights, the meager meals. Above all, he had always been on the front lines, taking risks that no one else would take.

Through this borderline unconscious attitude he had earned their respect and support, even when funds were next to nothing and he had nothing but promises for them.

And now, when these marched through Rome, it was as if he himself was doing it. The symbolic aspect of things was crucial in politics. It was necessary that he was always in people's minds, even when he was physically absent.

Everything that could refer to him, had to refer to him and his greatness. Almost as if he was omnipresent.

The same was true for Cleopatra.

She was also a simulacrum, an indirect projection of his power.

Whether she liked it or not.

And it wasn't over yet. There was so much to conquer, to make his own.

With the benevolence of the gods, he would still have some time to do what he had always dreamed of. To give the world the best possible shape. Namely, his own.

Puffing, almost oppressed by the darkness around him, he went back to curving over his map gently stretching it with his fingers.

It was ironic. The more powerful he became, the more new enemies emerged to take down.

And this time, standing in the way of his plans for the future were familiar faces, resurfacing from a seemingly distant past.

In Spain the sons of his greatest rival, Pompey, had risen up against him. The young Gnaeus and Sextus intended, together with Titus Labienus, to form an alliance aimed at eliminating him.

He shook his head.

Labienus.

If he had been told years earlier that he would one day find himself fighting his former lieutenant, a man he had believed to be a brotherly friend, he would never have believed it. But such was the case.

There was no room for feelings at that time.

He had never been there, in truth.

He would face his past, looking him straight in the eye, to put it aside and forget it once and for all. So that he could finally focus on what was in front of him.

He continued to scan the map, staring at the jagged outline of the Iberian Peninsula without paying attention to anything else.

"You forget that you are not alone," said a trembling voice, barely audible because of how faint it was.

Caesar raised his head sharply.

He had completely forgotten about the boy.

He looked at him more carefully, and it seemed to him that he was facing a specter. Octavian had always been pale, but this time he was too pale. Squeezed into a cape that concealed his slender physique, the young man shivered without being able to keep still.

His handsome features, complimented by large clear and expressive eyes, appeared almost disfigured.

"Then," insisted Octavian, shaken by a terrible cough, "will you take me to Spain with you?"

Caesar heard those words, but ended up being enraptured by what he saw in his great-grandson's eyes. It was as if his health was as bad as his ambition was great.

Although exhausted and debilitated by one of his famous ailments, Octavian had shown up there in the middle of the night to ask him to let him participate in that upcoming campaign.

The fire he saw in her veiled eyes filled him with pride.

That young man was just like him.

There was no risk not worth taking when faced with the prospect of a future of power and greatness.

He became convinced that blood was not the only thing they shared.

There was more, much more.

Perhaps, leaving all reservations behind, Octavian himself could have been what he had thought of long ago.

It was undeniable how he, while always remaining Caesar, was aging. It was necessary for him to take precautions, to find someone to whom he could entrust his project, who would be worthy one day to carry it forward.

She barely smiled, letting Octavian take in that expression of hers as an affirmative answer to his question.

And as the latter widened his eyes, seemingly invigorated by the honor bestowed on him, Caesar was convinced.

Yes, he was the right person.

The future would be his, and with it the realization of what he had always hoped for.

Although, he had to admit to himself, he would do anything so that he could make time to enjoy it himself before he died. With no one else with whom to share the power and fruits of decades of wars and strategies.

Because after all, no one could ever have been Caesar.

Not even those who had his own blood in their veins.

V

Ascend

Apollonia, May 45 BC.

Octavian paused under the tree, seeking shelter from the strong afternoon sun. Then he stretched out his arm and grabbed a fig tree, pulling it off the branch. He looked at it almost in disgust.

He was forced to eat, no matter how much his physique urged him to reject any nourishment. But if he wanted to remain standing, he was forced to do so. He gently peeled the fruit and took a small bite, swallowing immediately as if he wanted to get rid of that annoying obligation as soon as possible.

"You didn't answer me," thundered Agrippa behind his back.

Octavian turned, smiling at him in apology.

His friend, who had followed him there at Caesar's behest, looked like a statue because of how imposing and sculptural he was.

Moreover, no matter how affable and good-natured his physiognomy, with his protruding forehead, deep almost sunken eyes and taurine neck automatically led anyone to fear him.

After their victory in the campaign against the sons of Pompey and Labienus, Caesar had mandated that the two young men, who had done so well under him as cavalry officers, go to Macedonia along with the legions to study and hone their leadership skills.

But even moments of leisure and freedom, driven by enthusiasm and the desire to attack tomorrow, the two could not help but wonder what would become of Rome in the future.

"I have already told you, Agrippa. I couldn't tell what Caesar is thinking right now," muttered Octavian, weighing what was left of the fig tree he had laboriously eaten.

"I believe he will eventually become monarch," Agrippa said, sitting in the shade of the tree with his legs spread wide.

"Besides, he has no more rivals. Pompey is dead, and his sons defeated. Labienus is also gone. And no one in Rome would ever have the courage to oppose a man who made much of the known world his own. Do you remember Vercingetorix? For years they painted him as a veritable fiend. And then we saw him parading through Rome in chains, a shadow of his former self. That's what happens when you face Julius Caesar."

"I am not convinced," Octavian reiterated without any inflection in his voice. He kept his gaze away from his friend, who instead stared at him in puzzlement.

"And what doesn't convince you? It seems obvious to me. Gaul is his, Egypt too. And Africa as well. His companion, Cleopatra, is treated and presented as a deity equal to those we worship. And mind you, no one dared to protest. If this is not a sign of overweening power and monarchical tendencies..."

"There are too many people, still."

Agrippa snorted, ironic.

"You mean people who could represent a credible opposition to Caesar? How?"

Octavian shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm not saying they could oppose it. That would be crazy. Caesar has all the armies on his side, and no one can ever take them away from him. The relationship with them is too close. Every single legionnaire in Rome would give his life for him. But there might be someone, as it were...ready to pick up what he has created."

Fascinated by that convoluted reasoning and developing in such a piecemeal manner, Agrippa leaned back slightly, frowning.

"And who? Let's hear."

Octavian turned only then, looking at him with his crystalline eyes and turning a hard, serious expression, the kind that stripped him of the usual delicacy of his features.

"Cicero, for example. Or Marcus Antonius."

"Or you," replied Agrippa lightning-fast.

Those words immediately struck Octavian, who widened his eyes in disbelief.

For a few moments he did not know what to say in response. He lost himself in the eyes of the young man he considered more a brother than a friend.

Then he shook his head, and smiled.

Nothing could really be hidden from Agrippa.

"I saw the coin, Octavian," the latter told him amicably as he got to his feet. "You need say no more. Hoping is permissible, indeed it is a right. There would be no meaning to this life if we did not."

He followed that suggestion, Octavian, and said nothing.

He had decided to have that silver coin minted after their visit to the observatory of Theogenes, an astrologer known for his ability to predict the future by interpellating the celestial vault.

Although reticent, he had eventually turned to him to learn his fate, after Agrippa himself had been told of a future studded with honors and accomplishments.

Incredibly, once the details of his birth were revealed, he had seen the old man rise in disbelief and prostrate adoringly at his feet. What he had then heard about his future had shocked him, indelibly Marcused.

Only then had he decided to have the coin minted, depicting his zodiac ascendant, Capricorn.

Like Caesar, he believed in the power of symbols.

And that seemingly insignificant object was everything to him.

It symbolized his destiny, and confidence he placed in it. For on that day, the stars had spoken to him.

And they predicted to him that tomorrow, he would ascend to sit with them.

Whether Caesar was still alive or not.

VI

With new eyes

Rome, February 15, 44 B.C.

For a moment, Caesar believed that what was happening was just a nightmare. For it could not be reality.

He slowly closed his eyes, inhaled, then opened them again.

But the image that presented itself to him remained the same.

Marcus Antonius was still at his feet, head bowed, his hands clasped holding out his golden monarch's diadem.

Unbelievable!

She barely held back the urge to kick him in the face.

What was that idiot up to?

He was screwing up everything!

Those were not the plans. It was not supposed to be that way.

That third and unusual edition of the Lupercali, which he had named Luperci Iulii in his honor, was meant to cement his position as dictator, as well as to dispel any inference that he was ready to make himself monarch by overriding any authority.

He had been clear from the beginning about how everyone was to behave. Lepidus would bring him the diadem first in front of everyone, nobility and people alike, and he would refuse it.

Then it would be Marcus Antonius's turn to offer that title.

And for the last time, he would firmly decline it.

And so it had been.

Up to that time.

Antonius was not expected to offer him the tiara again.

But then, why had he done it?

Caesar assumed a terrible, sullen expression, tightening his lips and forcing himself to appease his anger.

He peered into Marcus Antonius's eyes, which emerged from beneath the curly hair he wore. Eyes that were seemingly humble, but seemed to conceal other intentions.

Perhaps the treacherous one wanted to imply that by reintroducing the monarchy to him, he might reconsider?

Such a gesture seemed to him to be motivated by a desire to make it clear to everyone that what they had participated in was nothing more than a farce designed to appease the spirits of the Romans.

Feeling his blood boiling, Caesar finally snatched the tiara from Antonius's hands and threw it away. Then he stood up.

"I am Caesar," he growled, "and Caesar I will remain. Never will I be king!"

The roars of the crowd overpowered what happened next.

Antonius stood up, but he could look into the dictator's eyes only for a few moments. Caesar's icy gaze penetrated him like the most relentless of blades. Then he vanished into the crowd.

The festivities resumed, but despite the chaos and praise in his name, Caesar quickly realized that to many people it had not gone unnoticed.

Looking around, he felt a multitude of greedy and hostile gazes directed at him.

He noticed several senators, old and haggard, but still convinced they could make their case in a world that was going too fast for their rotting bodies.

They hated him with all their might. He had stripped them of all power, but taking care to keep their position intact on a formal level, in fact sparing them but only after disarming them. A humiliation they would never forget.

But among all the faces adverse to him, it was one that struck him to the core.

Cleopatra's.

His lover appeared to him as a supernatural creature.

Beautiful, bright in her clothes and with heavy makeup surrounding her iridescent eyes and perfectly coiffed hair.

Yet despite his wonderful appearance, the queen looked at him with a disdain he had never seen in her.

He escaped that bewitching but sinister gaze.

He was well aware of the reason for that behavior.

Cleopatra was a queen.

And as such, it was inexplicable to her that he still refused to proclaim himself king. To her, that attitude was almost self-defeating. As well as humiliating to his person.

How could the queen of Egypt share power-and the thalamus-with a man who despite all his achievements stubbornly refused to ascend to the highest of honors?

Was he perhaps a coward, or even worse, a fool?

No, none of that.

Cleopatra simply could not understand.

What eluded the queen was that form could not always coincide with substance.

In fact, he was already a monarch. No one would ever dare to rise against him or challenge his decisions. In his retinue he had a huge and invincible army, which was growing day by day. Thanks to it he could have wiped out entire nations from the world, if only he had wanted to.

But for the common good, it was better that substance did not also translate into form. But this, Cleopatra would never understand. She had been born a queen, and had grown up knowing that that would be her destiny.

For him it had not been like that. He had had to fight a lifetime, risking and going into debt, staking everything on himself with no certainty of success. Yet, in the end he had triumphed.

And what he had achieved was too valuable for him to compromise it by accepting an insignificant honor.

For that very reason, the child Cleopatra held tightly to her leg would never be recognized as her child, much less as an heir.

Turning substance into form would have been too dangerous.

He would have had to settle for a name, private and Romanesque.

But there was no time to think about such nonsense.

Another, far more important thing needed to be understood: what had prompted Marcus Antonius to deviate from the plans.

"Let the diadem be affixed to the head of the statue of Jupiter Optimus Maximus," he intimated to one of the servants without adding more.

With that gesture, respectful of Latin deities, he would have silenced even those who accused him of pernicious pro-Oriental ideas.

The roaring applause of the people all around reached his ears like waves crashing on a cliff.

But soon, Caesar became deaf even to that sound.

A realization had dawned on him.

For the first time in a long time, he had realized that he was once again alone, albeit firmly in power.

He was surrounded by people who were willing to do anything to achieve even an iota of what he had come to, sacrificing everything.

Even the collaborators he had deemed most loyal were capable of vile and unscrupulous moves like that of Marcus Antonius.

For too long, his achievements had distracted him from keeping an eye on the dynamics among the people around and under him.

He should have been more careful since then, looking at reality with different eyes.

He had noticed, guiltily, only at that moment.

He hoped it was not too late.

VII

The good example

Rome, February 15, 44 B.C.

Cleopatra adjusted her hair, shiny and raven, and with an icy but eloquent look intimated to her servants to make all arrangements for her to be escorted back to her residence.

He had seen enough.

Perhaps many had missed the details of that scene, but she had not.

She had been taught from an early age to grasp every single nuance of what was happening around her in a reality saturated with intrigue, unspoken phrases and ambiguous and dangerous gestures.

What he had seen in Egypt, he had also found in Rome.

Precisely by virtue of this he sensed that something was wrong. Specifically, in Caesar.

The man to whom she had foolishly decided to bind herself causing a scandal that had appalled the peoples of two worlds.

Faced with that setback, the dictator had suddenly seemed fragile to her, unable to keep his emotions in check. Himself, the cold and unparalleled strategist.

She had lingered for a long time, Cleopatra, on Marcus Antonius's gestures and body language as he offered his supreme leader the monarch's diadem.

And he understood that there was something behind that act.

It was not an action dictated by loyalty, nor was it a gesture by which he intended to humbly defer to Caesar's will.

She had scrutinized him to the last, when she ended up getting lost again in the crowd, letting the confusion of the celebrations take over those brief moments that had left her dismayed.

One thing was certain, however.

Inside, he now felt that he appreciated Antonius more than Caesar.

Because the latter had, for the umpteenth time, shirked the opportunity to transform himself into a being capable of transcending the human condition, an absolute and unchallengeable ruler.

In front of the tiara he was as if paralyzed, falling pathetically victim to everyone else's own insecurities and paranoia.

As if he had decided to be content, to be okay with the idea of being an ordinary person.

And she could not accept seeing herself still by the side of such a man, who despite all his successes still wavered while trying to maintain his image as an inflexible and inscrutable conqueror. No, he was none of that anymore.

Or perhaps, even worse, he had never been, and it was she who had blundered long ago when she had been so thunderstruck by him that she had put her fate in his hands.

With the result that she found herself alone, in a foreign land, effectively segregated and forced to show herself only on public occasions.

When all was said and done, it was Antonius himself who had emerged the winner from that confrontation. He had no idea what had prompted him to persist with Caesar, putting him in such grave embarrassment. But what was undeniable was the courage he had shown in doing so.

A dowry, that one, that could not go unnoticed in the eyes of a queen. A queen who found herself orphaned by the man she had believed would one day become her equal.

Head bowed, he isolated himself from everything and everyone, eventually pondering what would be from there on out.

Faced with the opportunity of a lifetime, Caesar had refused.

His power would never be the same again.

Could he have been the man she would have wanted her son to be inspired by?

Could little Ptolemy XV, or Caesarion-the only form of recognition his father had granted the child-have learned any lessons from a fake dictator?

What, then, would become of the prophecy that had always portrayed his dynasty as destined to rule Egypt?

She could not allow her son to grow up in the shadow of a man unable to accept what had been decided for him.

It would be up to her to be both his mother and father, teaching him what was right, explaining to him who he really was, and indoctrinating him about the cause for which he was brought into the world.

Because Caesar would not have done that.

He would never have been able to do that.

Nor worthy at this point.

Only she could, because only she could understand.

She had been born a queen, and reigning would be the task of her offspring.

He climbed into the litter without saying anything, pulling back the curtain and taking refuge in the darkness.

From that day on, she would raise Ptolemy alone.

And he would make him the future king of Egypt.

VIII

In the name

Rome, March 2, 44 B.C.

"Do you still suffer indecision? Or do you perhaps bask in it, reveling in the fact that we're all here begging you?" ranted Cassius Longinus, pounding his palms on the table.

Silence descended in the room illuminated by a few faint lights.

Everyone present fell silent, hands clasped together, almost squatting in themselves. Their gazes focused on him.

Grim, impatient.

It was impossible to escape them.

Marcus Junius Brutus passed his hands over his face for the umpteenth time.

He was sweating. He had been doing it all along.

He had tried to convince himself that it was because of the lights and smoke that he had ended up creating a small cloud over them, but he knew very well that this was not the case. The truth was that he was nervous.

And flattered.

Because he actually knew that he was the perfect person to be the face, the symbol of what was being born at that moment, a desire that had been hatching in a multitude of minds for months, perhaps years, and was finally coming to life.

At first it had been a suggestion. Then it had permuted into confessions in the form of whispers between trusted people. Those people had soon become a circle, a collection of different individualities but united by a common desire.

Extinguish that evil that was slowly killing Rome, fading their last hopes of seeing the Republic again.

But that evil was too great and strong for them to succeed as they were. A guide was needed, a man who was strong and prominent but who was also from the other side.

And he was.

There was no need for him to lie to himself.

He, like everyone here, also hated Caesar.

The moment the latter had denied him the consulship, preferring the ambiguous Marcus Antonius, he had begun to listen to what was happening around him. As if his body and spirit, inflamed with hatred toward the dictator, had awakened giving him a way to see how that feeling to which it was dangerous even to hint had spread everywhere.

The nobility, and therefore much of the Senate, were adamant.

The dictator had to be eliminated.

He looked at them one by one, at the faces around him that he could not yet tell whether they were friends or enemies.

Gaius Trebonius, Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, Lucius Minucius Basilus, Servius Sulpicius Galba. And others.

They were waiting for him. Only him.

They had done everything they could to pull him in, but now that was no longer enough. They demanded that he be the one to lead them to accomplish that titanic feat, that subversive act that was almost insane when one thought of the overwhelming power Caesar held in Rome.

They were so convinced of this now that they no longer considered even the possibility of civil war breaking out to be a danger.

Their endurance had reached its limit.

Caesar had to die.

"Think about what the dictator dared to do to you," Cassius resumed, with growing rancor in his voice.

Brutus looked at him, being amazed by his fierce expression.

He spoke as if he was the one who had suffered the affront.

"Do you forget from whom you are descended, Brutus?" added Trebonius, sounding out every single word.

At first that sibylline question seemed of little importance to him, at most a puerile provocation, but after a few moments it burst into his mind crashingly.

He took his head in his hands.

He knew very well who his ancestors had been.

Even the city walls had reminded him of this, mocking him and inviting him to prove himself equally worthy.

Notes had even been left near the statue of his most illustrious ancestor, Lucius Junius Brutus, urging him to retrace the deeds of that great man.

The man who had driven the last king, Tarquinius Superbus, out of Rome, causing the Republic to be born in Rome.

It was his name that commanded him.

He could not allow the Urbe to fall victim again to a tyrant, now as never before close to consolidating his rule over everything.

A consequence that would have resonated even more tragically if no one had done anything to stop it.

He sank his hands into his hair, unashamed to show everyone how torn he was, torn between the desire to do it and the fear of failing, paying for everyone.

"Brutus," Cassius then said to him, taking his arm and forcing him to look into his eyes. "Please. It is not for me, for you, or for whoever is sitting at this table. It is for Rome, and for its future. An ancestor of yours drove out the Superb. But now another tyrant, as superb as he and perhaps more, threatens to annihilate everything, distorting our world. Help us to prevent this from happening."

Without realizing it, Brutus found himself nodding with moist eyes.

All present moved their heads equally, inviting him to make that association official.

He realized what he had done only by looking at them.

Then he understood.

It was as if his spirit had spoken for him, perhaps through the intercession of that hero of the past whose name he bore. A name inextricably linked to the Republic.

He no longer needed to think.

With a pained sigh he surrendered, letting go on the seat.

And with sincere, distraught but relieved eyes, he looked at everyone.

And he nodded once more.

"I will. We will."