The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  Caesar hugged him and rolled over, encasing him in his arms like a bear. The boy laughed and shrieked.

  Then Caesar held him up again at arm’s length, letting his plump legs dangle and kick. “Behold,” he said, “the new man. The man of the new world that we will create. Rome and Egypt, together. The west and the east, one. One citizen, one birth, one allegiance.”

  “But not one language,” I said in Latin.

  “That isn’t necessary,” he answered in Greek. “We will be able to understand each other well enough using our own languages.”

  29

  I came to the Regia at precisely the time he had indicated. He had had business with the Senate in the morning, and appointments with his secretaries, Balbus and Oppius, in the early afternoon, but he promised to be finished by our meeting time.

  As I approached the imposing facade of the Regia, with his house nearby, I found myself hoping Calpurnia was not at home to see me approaching.

  Caesar’s wife was not mentioned between us. I did not wish to question him, and evidently he did not wish to reveal what their relations were. As long as I did not have to think of her as a real person—a person watching from the windows, a person sorrowing over her barrenness, a person who also dreaded Caesar’s departure for another battlefield—I could live with the situation. She was Caesar’s wife, not mine.

  Go in at the central door, Caesar had told me. I saw a heavy wooden door, decorated with brass bosses, opening directly onto the Via Sacra. I pushed it open and let myself in.

  Two chambers opened on either side, and I could see that they both were dimly lit and smelled of recent incense. But the room also opened out onto a paved courtyard, bordered with a wooden portico. Since Caesar was not here yet, I thought it would be more pleasant to pass my time outside. The day was clear and windy, sweeping leaves high into the air and swirling them.

  On one side of the courtyard was an abandoned altar. There was also a bench, and I sat down on it, meaning to luxuriate in the sunlight, for it was warm against this wall. I leaned my head back against the stone and closed my eyes.

  But as soon as the wind stopped playing with the leaves, which crackled and rustled, I became aware of an unmistakable noise inside.

  There were moans and sharp little cries, and excited whispers. Then a lot of thrashing and creaking. I heard something fall on a floor—a floor just on the other side of the wall where I was leaning.

  Very slowly, I turned and looked in a corner of the window. There, on the far side of the room, on a low couch, were a man and a woman making heated love. The woman was twisting and moaning, and the man’s back was heaving and straining. I could see all the cords of his muscles along his back. He had thin arms, thin pale arms, and—as I caught a glimpse of his face, I almost gasped aloud. It was Octavian!

  Crumpled in a heap on the floor was a tangle of clothes, then, oddly, a pair of man’s sandals were put tidily aside. I stared at them. There was something strange about them. They were—the soles were unusually thick. They were artificially built up to give extra height.

  I turned away, clapping my hand over my mouth in shock. Octavian! The quiet, sanctimonious Octavian! He was having a tryst right in the Pontifex Maximus’s precinct. And he wore shoes to increase his height! I did not know which surprised me more.

  I peeked in again. Who was his partner? For a moment I couldn’t tell, but then I recognized her as—the wife of somebody or other who had come to the Egyptian party. I did not remember his name.

  So he was an adulterer as well. People certainly were surprising.

  I quickly retreated into one of the rooms opening off the courtyard.

  He had better hurry, I thought, or Caesar will catch him. I almost laughed. I knew, somehow, that Caesar would be shocked at the idea of doing such a thing in the vicinity of the sacred artifacts of Roman history—or, rather, he would be shocked that Octavian did not care. There was a difference.

  Octavian must have discovered that the Regia offered privacy during odd hours, and put it to good use on a regular basis. After all, he was a member of the College of Pontiffs there!

  Spread out on the table were several pouches of papers. Perhaps they were Caesar’s plans for the Roman buildings. I unrolled one of the scrolls, but quickly saw that they were private letters and reports. My Latin was just good enough for me to decipher that they concerned the movements of Labienus and Gnaeus Pompey. They must be dispatches from Caesar’s commanders in Spain. What were they doing here?

  As I was putting them back, there was a movement at the door. Octavian stood there, his toga perfectly draped, staring at me. I was astounded to see that there were so few wrinkles in it. How had he managed that? His sandals were not noticeably different from any others, once he was wearing them. He must have a talented cobbler.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. He was as surprised to see me as I had been to see him a few minutes earlier.

  “I am meeting Caesar,” I said, enjoying watching the expression on his face.

  “Now?” He made his way over to the papers and gathered them up, acting as though they were his.

  “Actually, he is late,” I said. “But he should arrive at any moment.”

  Octavian looked at me carefully, and I could see him wondering how long I had been there.

  “I found it hard to wait inside,” I said innocently, “so I have enjoyed the fine autumn day out in the small courtyard.”

  He wrestled with himself and decided not to gamble. “Don’t tell my uncle,” he said unhappily. “Please don’t tell him!”

  “Why, he is hardly in a position to judge you,” I said. “He will probably applaud you for imitating him. Nor am I in a position to judge you, for obvious reasons.”

  “I—I—” He swallowed hard. “It is better that he not know. I—I am sorry.”

  I laughed. “You need not apologize to me. I am not the lady’s husband.”

  “O Apollo!” He groaned. “You know him. You know she is—Don’t tell my uncle! Please! Swear it!”

  “I hardly think that is necessary. I have promised you I won’t tell him.”

  He snatched up the papers and tucked them under his arm, looking even more furtive. “I—I must go,” he muttered, clutching them. He turned back and looked at me with a mixture of worry and anger. Then he was gone.

  What was I to think? Had he availed himself of Caesar’s private papers as well as the man’s wife? He was a sneaky little thing behind his wide blue eyes. Did Caesar realize this? Surely he must.

  Caesar arrived a few minutes later, walking in briskly. “So much correspondence!” he said. “I apologize for being late.” He looked around. “I hope you have not been bored. This room is quite bare.” He indicated the empty table.

  “Oh, I have had an opportunity to think,” I assured him. I was bursting to tell him about Octavian. But I had given my word.

  “Here, in this adjoining room,” he said, steering me into it, “is the Sanctuary of Mars. Here is the sacred shield that Numa, the second king of Rome, received from heaven. It foretells Roman victory.”

  It was dim in the room, despite the bright light outside. An oversized bronze statue of Mars stood on its pedestal, and all around the walls of the room gleamed many shields.

  “To keep it from being stolen, Numa had eleven copies made. No one knows which is the true one. And here are the spears, which foretell our doom by vibrating.”

  “Do you feel them shiver? What do they tell you about Spain?”

  He reached out and grasped one. “Nothing. It is quiet.”

  “So you have these things in your safekeeping?” I asked.

  “They are to be guarded by the Pontifex Maximus.”

  “But they belonged to a king.”

  “The Regia was the seat of the kings. Rex—Regia. The Pontifex Maximus inherited the priestly power of the kings. It did not die with them.”

  “Neither, apparently, did the idea of kingship. I have never heard so much talk a
bout kings until I came to Rome.” I paused. “So you are descended from kings, and exercise a kingly guardianship. You have little way to go until you are forced to accept the title itself.”

  He chose not to answer. Instead he said, “It may amuse you to know that I am served by a priesthood of women, the Vestal Virgins. In their shrine is the Palladium, the wooden statue of Pallas that fell from the sky at Troy and was brought here by Aeneas. Would you like to see it?”

  “If you would like to show me,” I said. I could tell from his tone that he would not take kindly to Octavian’s antics in the shadow of Aeneas, as it were. Perhaps there was a glimmer of something sacred that he honored, after all. Octavian had known that, and I had not.

  The new calendar was announced, and immediately the extra days were introduced. People “lived” the same day over, which gave rise to some peculiar behavior. Some strove to repeat everything exactly the same way, but do it better; others decided one of the days did not count. Then, the people who had to grumble over everything—like Cicero—made snide remarks. When someone mentioned that the constellation Lyra was due to rise, Cicero sneered, “Yes, by edict.”

  The new war in Spain was likewise announced, and caused alarm and wonder. Were the civil wars never to end? A mood of despair seemed to seize people, made worse by the earlier sunsets and the growing chill. The blue-skied Triumphs and all they had promised seemed to wilt, killed by this early frost.

  Rains fell, dreary days bringing shivering mornings. We had to light braziers in the villa, and close the shutters. I was surprised to find what a downward pull the dullness and drizzle had on my spirits; and at the same time I wondered how much of my usual optimism and energy derived from the bright, bracing climate of Alexandria. I had always thought it natural-born, rather than influenced by the light and air around me.

  I saw little of Caesar. He was engrossed in his hurried war preparations, and in pushing his reforms through the Senate; he had so little time. Sometimes, if I were in the Forum, I would glimpse him hurrying from his residence to his new buildings. At a distance, I could always recognize him by his posture. I could also tell when he saw me, by the way he hesitated for just a moment. But he never came over or altered his route.

  I dreaded his going; the only good thing would be that once he went, he must soon return—must return—must return—

  I wished that I could send him off with news that I was to bear another child. But it was not like Egypt, where we lived together day and night. Here we were so seldom together, and the whole feeling of Rome was different from the bursting fertility of Egypt. I did not conceive, as if the gods of Rome had shut up my womb. They did not care for me—I could feel it.

  The hard, stony gods of Rome were not like Isis, Queen of Heaven, she who had both passion and compassion….

  Caesar would embark at the end of the third November—a speedy preparation, even for him. He would take only his veteran Fifth and Tenth Legions with him, order two other veteran legions to join him, and raise the others later. He had unfortunately disbanded some of his famous legions after the last wars, and they were now busy farming on the land they had been awarded at their retirement.

  He announced to Rome that he was taking his great-nephew Octavian to give him firsthand training in warfare. Well, perhaps it would fill out his spindly little arms.

  I thought to myself that his surreptitious reading of the war correspondence should stand Octavian in good stead; he would then appear to Caesar to be miraculously well informed on the subject. But such had doubtless been his aim.

  I did not think long of Octavian, because Ptolemy fell ill with a cough and fever. The winter was not agreeing with him; he lay in his narrow bed and turned big, sunken eyes upon me whenever I came into the room.

  “I want to go back to Egypt,” he said plaintively. “I want the sunshine. I want Olympos.” He would break off to cough a heaving cough.

  “Ptolemy,” I would tell him gently, “it is too late to sail now. We must wait until the winter storms are past.”

  “I’ll be dead by then,” he muttered, turning his head restlessly.

  “There are doctors in Rome,” I said. “From what I hear, half of them are Greek. I will get one for you—the best to be had.” I rubbed his sweating brow with a scented cloth. “There is also Isis, our own goddess. I will seek out her sanctuary and ask her help. She has never failed me.”

  Charmian and I set out to find the Isis Temple, which I had heard stood in the Field of Mars. It was a cold and misty morning, when there seemed to be no colors in the world, only shades of gray. The streets, wreathed in fog, were mysterious corridors leading to unseen squares and alleys. I had taught myself enough by this point that I knew which turns to take, and found the place where I believed the temple to be with little difficulty.

  But it was a heap of stones. Only the flat marble floor, littered with fallen columns and mounds of scattered rubble, showed where the temple had once stood. Then I saw it—the desecration. A statue of Isis lay forlornly beside a block of stone—her pedestal?—and she was faceless. Someone had chiseled away all her features.

  “Oh, Charmian!” I clutched at her arm. The sight of the defaced goddess was chilling.

  “It has been deliberately destroyed,” she said, looking around warily. “By an enemy of Isis.”

  An enemy of Isis was also an enemy of mine, as she was the patron goddess of my royal house. “Who would have dared?” I said in a low voice. I bent down to brush the hurt goddess’s face, as I had soothed Ptolemy’s. “This does little,” I apologized to her. “They cannot injure your power, or take away your compassion,” I said. “The gods are not weakened by the damage of men.”

  And that was a comforting thing. What if gods lost their power because we attacked our own images of them? They were not the images, which were merely fashioned with our bare hands.

  “Isis, hear me now,” I called upon her. “Here I have no sistrum, no sacred Nile water, no pitcher to perform your rites in what was once your holy temple. But you, who are the most loyal wife and devoted mother, touch Ptolemy with your power and make him well. Let him see his homeland again.” I watched the featureless face, aching over her disfigurement. Impulsively I took off a necklace I was wearing, and draped it around her neck.

  “No, my lady, it will just be stolen,” said Charmian, trying to stay my hand.

  “Eventually everything is stolen,” I said. “Broken, destroyed, stolen.” I had a sudden vision of that grim picture. It all ended with toppled columns and things coming apart—the seams of marble plaques, stair steps, the joining of stone arms to stone shoulders. “So I offer it while it is still whole.” It lay there on her neck, the lapis the only spot of color apart from the green weeds peeking between the paving stones.

  I felt consoled by the offering; I had thrown something into the maw of destruction.

  “Come,” I said. “Let us leave this place.”

  We were able to procure a good doctor, a man named Apollos, who was Greek but had become a Roman citizen.

  “Thanks to Caesar,” he said, “foreign physicians and scholars and artists are given special citizenship. I came here to learn for a little while, but had no thought of staying permanently. It was Caesar who changed the rules.” He was bending down and listening to Ptolemy’s chest.

  “Congestion in there,” he pronounced. “We will have to smoke it out. Burn dried fenugreek, and make a poultice of dried figs.” He smiled and thumped Ptolemy’s hollow little chest. “Make you as good as new. You’ll see.” To me he nodded, and motioned for me to speak to him privately.

  “Do not be alarmed,” he said. “He will recover. I suggest wrapping his legs in woolen strips to keep them warm, and give him foods known to produce heat in the belly, such as chickpeas and walnuts.”

  “This climate does not agree with him,” I said. “But I think he is also homesick. In Alexandria we also have rain and storms; it is not all sunny there, as in the rest of Egypt.”


  “Soon the sun will be out in Rome,” he said. “Our winters are short.”

  “I tried to visit the Temple of Isis to request her help,” I said. “What took place there?” Surely he would know.

  “It was destroyed by order of the Senate,” he said. “First some altars to Isis on the Capitoline hill were broken up by two Consuls, and then the Senate voted to remove the great temple itself. But no one had the courage to touch it, no workmen would obey the order to lay hands on it, until a Consul, Aemilius Paulus, took off his toga and battered down the door with an axe.”

  “But why?”

  “I think it was a shudder of repulsion against anything foreign,” he said. “Rome goes through these purges ever so often. I have felt the hostility to foreigners here. Have you not? Forgive me if I speak out of turn.”

  “Yes. Yes, I have. Well, if they don’t want foreigners about them, then they never should have ventured so far from safe little Rome!” Whose fault was it that Rome was involved with so many countries?

  “Caesar’s view is different,” he said. “He seems not to share that prejudice.” He laughed. “You and I are proof of that, I suppose.”

  Caesar came to say good-bye on the yellowish bright morning that began the third November. I saw him come hurriedly up the pathway, his face looking blank, his cloak flying out behind him. I went to greet him, waiting just inside the atrium.

  There were servants about; his words were formal.

  “I come to take leave of you, on the eve of my departure, and to wish you well in Rome while I am away.” The words hung there, silly, slight.

  I took his hand and led him into a private chamber. “Do not leave me with this memory,” I said. “Your formal words leave much unsaid.” I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “So you go? When? And what of your legions?”

  “I depart within a day,” he said, taking a seat. “I go overland to Spain—fifteen hundred miles—in a hard-riding carriage. I plan to cover at least fifty miles a day, and take the enemy by surprise. That will put me there around the first of December.”