He touched the back of my neck, gently, and drew my head back so he could look at me. A faint smile was on his face, one I had never seen before. Then he kissed me, a deep kiss that spoke of the pain of our separation.
“Let us get out of the doorway,” I finally said. We had remained at the threshold, where anyone could see us. I drew him inside.
He stood, a little changed. He looked thinner. His face had more of the eagle in it—leaner, more acute.
“Thanks be to all the gods,” I said. “Fortune has not deserted you.”
“No,” he said. His voice was softer, more tempered. “The sacrifices just before the battle of Munda foretold disaster. But I ignored them. I said all would be well because I wished it to be.”
I shuddered. “Fortune was merciful to her favorite son, after such arrogance.”
“Perhaps she likes it.” He came over to me and embraced me. “Do you?”
“It is part of you,” I said, “and I love everything about you.”
“Is that true?” he said. “Then you are different from all others.”
The rain spattered outside, the branches of the trees dipped and swayed under the wind, and we huddled together under the coverlet of my couch as if we would shelter from it.
“Was it like this in your tents out in Spain?” I asked him, lying beside him and listening to the cold rain.
“No. This is luxurious. The roof does not leak, and the sheets do not take up groundwater.” He took my hand. “You haven’t lived until you have experienced a winter campaign.”
“You must take me on the next one,” I said lightly. When he did not laugh, I said, “Surely you aren’t planning another one? There is no one left to fight.”
“Except the Parthians.”
“Leave the Parthians to themselves,” I said. “And they will leave you alone.”
“Someday those eagles of Crassus’s destroyed legions must be returned.”
“Not by you,” I said. “Rome is a greater challenge today. Leave Parthia for Caesarion. After all, if you have conquered the entire world, what will be left for him? You have to leave something for the next generation to aspire to.”
“I will make a bargain with you,” he said in his quiet, mock-serious voice. “I will remain in Rome for a while if you stay as well.” He paused. “Will you?” Another pause. “Please?”
Yes, why should we hurry from one another, after such a long parting? I put out my arms to him and held him tightly. I would bind him to me with hoops of iron, keep him away from all harm. No more territory. No more conquests. Let him consolidate what he had already won.
For this one night, he was content with the boundaries of this little room, with me and what I could offer him. And I offered him all of myself.
Against what I held to be all common sense, Caesar was bent on having a Triumph to celebrate his victory. He would claim the war had been a Spanish rebellion, aided by traitorous Romans. This would fool no one, as I pointed out. He said he did not care.
There are those who hold that Caesar, during those days, was not behaving rationally, that his usual clear-sightedness (his sterling trait) was clouded and his judgment suspect. My interpretation is that he was exhausted, increasingly embittered by the failure of his reconciliation policy and the automatic suspicion and hostility of the aristocrats toward his every gesture, and in too great a hurry. He treated the Senate and people of Rome like a pitched battle that must be fought without delay, on the spot. Politics and war are not the same; his genius on the field did not transfer to the byways of the government.
By vanquishing all his foes, and being appointed Dictator, he had been given an unspoken mandate to reorder the government, as Sulla had been. The hope was that he would somehow “restore the Republic”—the pious words on everyone’s tongue.
But the truth was that the cherished Republic had grown moribund. Even today, I wonder what could have been done to “restore” it—save going backward in time to an era when it worked. The Republic was a private club, like my Egyptian club—the Society of Imhotep—when I was a child. It answered the needs of only a few aristocrats, while excluding vast numbers of men with equally powerful interests. It was the second group with whom Caesar cast his lot, going over the heads of the old established order. He could not hand the reins of the government back to the rigid old group. And that was what “restoring the Republic” meant.
The Spanish Triumph was held—against my advice, and that of Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, Lepidus, Decimus, and even, some said, Balbus and Oppius. It was an unusually warm day in early October, and once again the streets were swept, garlands were strung on the monuments and buildings, viewing stands were set up. Caesar rode forth in glory, as he had the year before, followed by solemn Octavian in his chariot. But in the midst of all the cheering and adulation, one of the tribunes of the people refused to rise from his bench as the Triumphal Chariot passed by.
I was shocked when, instead of gazing serenely ahead, Caesar pulled his horses to a stop and glared at the offending tribune. In a harsh voice he shouted, “So, Pontius Aquila! Why don’t you make me give up the state? After all, you are a tribune!”
Aquila, astounded, just stared back. But he did not rise.
The Triumphal Chariot resumed its journey, but the incident burned its way into common memory.
The banquet afterward was said to have fallen short of Caesar’s expectations (or was it the people’s?) and so he ordered a second one a few days later.
Then he affronted public opinion further when he allowed his two less-than-competent lieutenant generals, Pedius and Fabius, to celebrate their own Triumphs, even though it was their inability to make headway against the enemy that had called Caesar to Spain to begin with.
At the same time he abruptly resigned his Consulship and appointed Fabius and another man to fill out the last three months of the year.
“Whatever can you be thinking of?” I asked him, one afternoon when he had come to the villa—one rare afternoon when he had a spare moment.
“They keep accusing me of being a tyrant,” he said. “Does a tyrant resign his offices?”
“Why must you be so angry?” I asked. “Were you angry at Gnaeus Pompey, or at Vercingetorix? Had you been, could you have defeated them?”
“So now you give me advice—you, whose one experience of war was a stalemate between your forces and your brother’s; you, whose one experience of an upheaval in government made you lose your throne and have to flee!” He fairly spat the words.
I refused to rise to this bait. “I admit as much,” I said. “But I was only twenty-one years old, and it was my first experience of ruling, or of fighting. You, the most seasoned soldier in the world, should know better.”
“And now you are an expert,” he said. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-four, as well you know,” I said. “And I have had the advantage of being a bystander in this tug-of-war. Bystanders can sometimes see things others closer do not. And what I see is a man acting as if he has been attacked by a pack of wolves—a man striking out in all directions, spitefully. Has it really been necessary for you to say sarcastically at the end of every political promise since the Triumph, ‘Providing Aquila allows me to’? It sounds like something a village woman would say at a well about her rival. It is not worthy of you.”
He shook his head and sank down on a chair. “I suppose not,” he finally said. “It is petty, and petulant.” He frowned. “But they drive me past endurance!”
I laughed. “Past endurance? You, who have existed on roots and snow, who have traveled under excruciating conditions. How many miles did you cover a day en route to Spain, in the winter?”
“Over fifty,” he said. Then a boyish smile. “And I composed a long poem on the way—I didn’t let a minute go to waste. It’s called ‘The Journey.’ ”
“Yes, and you have yet to let me read it,” I half scolded him. “But as I was saying—how can you now let these political barbs drive you to di
straction, when all that nature has thrown against you cannot do it?”
“People are more maddening than cold, starvation, thirst, or heat.”
I knelt at his side. Yes, I knelt. I looked up at him as directly as possible. “You have come too far, done too much, to fail now because of human weakness. Repair this weakness! Do not let it gain control of you!” Would he listen to me? “It will bring you down, negate everything you have worked for!”
“Am I not a human being?” he cried, a howl of anguish. “How can I order myself to be a stone? These things rip at me—they tear my very fabric!”
“Mend it, and rest,” I said. “Your spirit is wounded, and you must let it heal as you would a cut of any other sort on your body. I fear,” I said slowly, “that if you do not, it will become infected. Indeed, it is on the verge of it.”
Perhaps he did as I said; he seemed to disappear for several days. But the unrest and the murmurs continued. For a city at peace, and unthreatened by external enemies, Rome seemed singularly nervous.
I was startled when, near the end of the month, Octavian was announced at the villa. I met with him in a chamber opening off the atrium—it was painted in a deep red, with mythic scenes to compensate for its having only one window.
He looked taller, older. (Had he had higher sandals fashioned?) His delicate beauty had been tempered, and the body under the toga seemed more substantial, sturdier. The Spanish campaign had turned him into a man, after all, though he had seen no actual fighting. Just fighting his way there had been enough.
“You have grown imposing,” I said. “Your journey must have had a salutary effect upon you.” I was surprised at my own warm feelings for him; he had grown on me. And his loyalty to Caesar had been proved. That counted for a great deal.
“I come to bid you farewell,” he said. “My uncle has arranged for Agrippa and me to depart for Apollonia across the Adriatic and receive further training—in both rhetoric and warfare.”
“I know it is difficult for him to send you away,” I said, meaning it.
“We will join him on his next campaign, when we can be of more use to him,” said Octavian.
Next campaign? There was to be another? “Parthia?” I asked softly. It had to be Parthia.
“Yes. We will already be halfway there. He will send for us after he has crossed over.”
After he has crossed over…. When? “Next spring, then?” I said knowingly.
“I believe so,” he said.
“I wish you and Agrippa a safe journey,” I said. “No more shipwrecks! And I hope your training is everything you desire.” I looked at him: at his pure, incandescent features, his wide-set eyes, his light tousled hair. All I thought at the time was, Caesar’s family is a handsome one.
“I have benefited from knowing you,” I added.
“And I from knowing you,” he said, his pleasant smile in place.
And that, I swear, was my last meeting with him, the last words we ever spoke face-to-face. How the gods like to mock us! I sift that meeting time and again, as if some portentous words might flutter out of my memory. But there were none. Nothing but a cordial farewell between two people who loved Caesar well, and would have died for him.
31
The streets were jammed. My litter could scarcely make any headway. The jostling and pushing meant that the litter rode as roughly as if we had been at sea—and indeed, that was where we were, attempting to tack through a heaving sea of people.
“This is fun!” said Ptolemy, peering out the side. His voice was weak; with the return of the cold weather, his cough and debility had come back.
I wished I had not yielded to Caesar and stayed on so long. Now we were trapped until spring. I longed for the wide streets of Alexandria, where the thoroughfares were never choked like this. We had started out to visit the quarters of the silver-and goldsmiths, because Ptolemy wished to watch them at work. He had a decided artistic bent, especially for design. The arrangements had been made days in advance; they were expecting us at their workshops, and here we were, stuck en route.
What was causing this? I glared out of the litter, as if I could shrivel up the culprit with my gaze. All I saw was the vast throng of heads and shoulders; then I caught sight of an outsized statue lurching along in an open wagon, secured by ropes. Behind it, a little way away, came another. I did not recognize them.
“Look!” cried Ptolemy, pointing. “It’s Caesar over there, on those steps!”
I turned to see; indeed, Caesar and some others were standing on the steps of the Theater of Pompey and its attached buildings, bigger than the theater itself.
“That way!” I commanded the bearers, and they turned abruptly and made their way across the road.
What a grandiose building this was, I thought. It looked almost as though it belonged in Alexandria.
Caesar watched us approaching, and came over to us.
“So this draws even you?” he asked, bending down and peering in at us.
“No,” I said. “We happen to be here by accident. What is it?”
“Why, it is the day of the restoration of the statues,” he said. “Come, and watch.” When he saw my reluctance, he said, “Wherever you were going, you cannot get there. You might as well join us.” He held out his hand and helped us out. He did not let go of mine as he returned to his spot on the stairs.
“What a day, eh?” said a man I recognized as Lepidus after a moment of memory-searching. “Who would have thought they’d return?”
“Out of storage,” said another man—Marc Antony. “Get the cobwebs off them, they’ll be as good as new.”
“Yes, never throw anything away,” said the woman standing beside him; it was Fulvia, his new wife. “That’s what I always say.”
“It couldn’t be about household things,” said Lepidus. “For all the world knows you aren’t concerned about those.”
Fulvia did not look amused. “I manage well enough,” she said finally. “I have not heard Antony complaining.” She looked to him to agree.
“No, no,” he said. “Nothing to complain about.” He turned to me. “In Egypt you celebrate the resurrection of the dead,” he said. “This is the first time it has happened in Rome. The statues of the vanquished and the forbidden are rising once again on their pedestals.”
An extraordinarily large one was approaching, swaying on its cart, steadied by workers. Two tired-looking oxen, their horns down, plodded toward the theater, drawing the load.
“It’s Pompey,” said Caesar to me. “Do you recognize his moonlike face?”
“Yes,” I said, “although it has been many years.” Thank the gods I had not seen him, at the end, as Caesar had. I paused. “Why are you bringing his statue back?”
“His statues,” Caesar corrected me. “All over the city, they are being put back. Along with Sulla’s.”
“But why?” It seemed very odd to me.
“To show that the upheavals and civil wars of Rome are over,” Caesar said. “Now our heroes can be appreciated for their deeds, their bravery or ingenuity, without reference to the particular party they belonged to. All that is past!”
“So you wish,” said Fulvia sharply. “But it will take more than just putting old statues back on their bases to make things right!” I looked carefully at her then. She was classically lovely, but her fierceness of expression made me think of Athena with her war helmet on. She looked like a woman, but her words and manner were something else again.
“You just want a lot of other statues to keep yours company,” said Antony to Caesar. “So many of yours are going up, you don’t want them to be lonely!”
“Oh, honestly, Antony!” Fulvia glared at him. “Sometimes you sound like a fool!”
“Shut up, my love,” said Antony lightly. “Let’s see—there are to be two on the Rostra and one in each temple in Rome, as well as one in each city in the country and the provinces. It’s a good thing they can all be copied from one model, or else you’d get tired of posing
, dear Caesar.”
“A ruler should never get tired of posing,” said Fulvia. “In some countries it’s their main occupation. What about Egypt?” She shot the question at me like a challenge.
What was wrong with her? She seemed itching for a fight. But as a queen, I would not give her the satisfaction.
“Perhaps you have not seen the statue of Cleopatra I have put in the temple of my ancestors,” said Caesar quietly. “I suggest you do so. It will answer your questions.”
Fulvia scowled and walked toward the cart, on the pretext of inspecting the statue of Pompey, which the workmen were wrapping in a sheet and binding to a wooden platform, prior to lifting it out and carrying it into the building.
Lepidus burst into laughter and clapped his hand over his mouth, but Antony roared, as if he cared not if everyone in the vicinity heard him. It was a laugh of pure delight, such as I had seldom heard from an adult. Usually that unbridled happiness dies with our childhood.
“Hush,” said Caesar. “The Fierce One will hear you!”
Then all three of the men howled like little boys. Caesar dropped my hand and clutched his sides. He laughed until tears came from the corners of his eyes. “What’s so funny?” asked Ptolemy, puzzled. He looked around curiously.
“Something Roman men find amusing,” I said. “Wives.”
A vendor carrying a basket of sausages and bread was wending his way through the crowd, crying out to advertise his wares.
“Let’s buy his whole basket!” said Antony, waving his arms. “Over here, over here!” He jumped up and down.
The man hitched up his tunic and climbed the stairs expectantly. He had a pet monkey perched on his shoulder. “You’ll find these are the best,” he said. “Sausage from Lucania, bread baked this morning of fine simila!”
“We’ll take the whole lot of it!” said Antony. “Oh—and your monkey, too!”
The man was taken aback. “But she’s not for sale.”
Antony looked disappointed. “Then we’ll forgo the sale. You see, it’s the monkey we really wanted.”
The Memoirs of Cleopatra Page 49
