Antony and Cleopatra by Colleen McCullough Page B

he was right,” said Antony.
    “Were you Caesar, would you have done that to me?”
    “Oh, well,” said Antony, rolling over to come a little closer to her, “my feelings are not so fine.”
    “I am destroyed! He cheated me, and I loved him so much!”
    “Whatever happened is in the past. Caesar’s dead.”
    “And I have to have the same conversation with you that once I had with him,” Cleopatra said, furtively wiping her eyes.
    “What conversation is that?” he asked, trailing a finger down her arm.
    This time she didn’t remove it. “Nilus has not inundated in four years, Marcus Antonius, because Pharaoh is barren. To heal her people, Pharaoh must conceive a child with the blood of gods in its veins. Your blood is Caesar’s blood—on your mother’s side you are a Julian. I have prayed to Amun-Ra and Isis, and they have told me that a child of your loins would please them.”
    Not exactly a declaration of love! How did a man answer such a dispassionate explanation? And did he, Marcus Antonius, want to commence an affair with such a cold-blooded little woman? A woman who genuinely believed what she said. Still, he thought, to sire gods on earth would be a new experience—one in the eye for old Caesar, the family martinet!
    He took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it. “I would be honored, my Queen. And while I can’t speak for Caesar, I do love you.”
    Liar, liar! she cried in her heart. You are a Roman, in love with nothing beyond Rome. But I will use you, as Caesar used me. “Will you share my bed while you are in Alexandria?”
    “Gladly,” he said, and kissed her.
    It was pleasant, not the ordeal she had imagined; his lips were cool and smooth, and he didn’t shove his tongue inside her mouth at this first, tentative exploration. Just lips against lips, gentle and sensuous.
    “Come,” she said, picking up a lamp.
    Her bedroom was not far away; these were Pharaoh’s private quarters, on the small side. He pulled his tunic off—no loincloth underneath—and untied the bows that held her dress up at the shoulders. It fell in a puddle around her as she sat on the edge of the bed.
    “Skin is good,” he murmured, stretching out beside her. “I won’t hurt you, my Queen. Antonius is a good lover, he knows what kind of love to give a frail little creature like you.”
    As indeed he did. Their coupling was slow and amazingly pleasant, for he stroked her body with smooth hands and paid her breasts delightful attention. Despite his assurances that he would not, he would have hurt her had she not given birth to Caesarion, though he teased her into torment before he entered her, and knew how to use that enormous member in many ways. He let her come to climax before he did, and her climax astonished her. It seemed a betrayal of Caesar, yet Caesar had betrayed her, so what did it matter? And, greatest gift of all, he didn’t remind her of Caesar in any respect. What she had with Antony belonged to Antony. Different, too, to find that within moments of each climax he was ready for her again, and almost embarrassing to count the number of her own climaxes. Was she so starved? The answer, obviously, was yes. Cleopatra the monarch was once again a woman.
     
     
    Caesarion was thrilled that she had taken the great Marcus Antonius as her lover. In that respect he was not naive. “Will you marry him?” he asked, dancing about in glee.
    “In time, perhaps,” she said, profoundly relieved.
    “Why not now? He is the mightiest man in the world.”
    “Because it is too soon, my son. Let Antonius and I learn first if our love will bear the responsibilities of marriage.”
    As for Antony, he was bursting with pride. Cleopatra was not the first sovereign he had bedded, but she was by far the most important. And, he had discovered, her sexual attentions lay halfway between those of a professional whore and a dutiful Roman wife. Which suited him. When a man embarked upon a relationship destined to last