The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  I felt immense relief at that thought. I never wanted to set foot again in the city that Caesar had loved, and which had betrayed and murdered him.

  I remained weak and thin, seemingly unable to regain any strength. My distaste for food, my lethargy and fatigue, continued to hold me in their grip. The captain and my attendants set up a comfortable folding couch for me on deck, in hopes that the fresh sea air would help me. Bolstered with pillows and sheltered from the sun by a giant canopy, it was all an invalid could wish for. The spray of the passing sea danced around me, flicking me lightly, while I reclined listlessly.

  “We are passing between Crete and Cyrene now,” the captain told me. “We have passed the halfway mark on our journey.”

  Cyrene. Where the roses, and the fast horses, came from. Caesar had loved both.

  That night, as I made ready to lie down in the all-too-familiar bed, I sighed when Charmian opened the tiny window to admit a little air and drew the coverings over me.

  “I am weary of this illness, whatever it may be,” I told her. She was still dutifully bringing me food to tempt my appetite, and I was feeling increasingly guilty in turning it away, day after day. I was very thin, and my mirror revealed a face with cheekbones that stood out as never before, and oddly pink-tinted, translucent skin.

  “ ‘Whatever it may be’?” she said. “I think we both know well enough what it is, my lady.”

  I just stared at her. What did she mean? Was it something that others could see, while I was ignorant of it? Leprosy? Some clouding of the faculties that is obvious to everyone except the victim? “Do you mean I have a disease—an identifiable disease?” I tried to keep my voice calm. Only in thinking I had some fatal malady did I come to realize how much I wanted to live after all.

  “Yes, a very common one. Come, stop pretending! It isn’t amusing, and I don’t know why you have kept it up so long. Making me take care of you, make special dishes for you—really, it’s been tiresome.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Please, stop it! Why do you pretend you don’t know?”

  “What?”

  “Stop this game! You know very well you are with child!”

  I just stared at her. They were the last words I had ever expected to hear out of her lips. “Why—do you say that?”

  “Because it’s obvious! You have all the symptoms of it—and remember, I can see your face, and you cannot. Your face looks like it did the first time.”

  I burst into bitter laughter. How ironic, how cruel! The gods were mocking me, were mocking Caesar and me both. Was it true? Yes, in an instant I realized it was. I bent down my head and wept.

  Charmian knelt beside me, stroked my hair. “I am sorry, I did not mean to be harsh. It never occurred to me that you hadn’t considered it—but then, your mind has had such a shock that you have been disoriented. And you have lost all sense of time. Forgive me!”

  Great sobs burst from me. How could new life survive all that death? It seemed obscene, unnatural.

  If only, if only…it had happened in the course of things while we were in Rome, how different everything would have been. All Rome would have seen it was his. Now even he would never see it.

  Onward the ship ploughed, cutting a great white wake behind it. The sails filled, bearing us eastward, straining the mast as if impatient to arrive. Free of the grip of the waters near Italy, the ship seemed to have grown more buoyant, as if the stern hand of Rome had extended out even into the waters surrounding her, grasping everything that swam or sailed past, holding them immobile.

  I even felt my own spirits rising like bubbles bursting forth from deep, sunless water. The surface of things—that was what I sought, what I needed now. Let me have simple, straightforward people, let me have unembellished dishes, let me have constellations in the sky that I already knew—stars that were old friends, standing in their accustomed places, so I knew where to find them.

  After her outburst to me, Charmian had been overly contrite, and scurried around pampering me more than ever. But I assured her it was not necessary; I had taken no offense, since what she had said was true. I was sorry that I had been such a difficult mistress for so long, lying like a stranded jellyfish on my bed.

  I made an effort to avoid that from then on, but it took an enormous act of will. This pregnancy was very different from the first. I remembered how healthy and energetic I had felt then—dashing out to watch the fighting in the Alexandrian War, providing space and refuge for the military staff, spending the nights with Caesar. In all the tumult of the war, my condition had passed almost unnoticed.

  The war…thanks to that war, I had an Alexandria to return to. It had been secured for me at great cost; I must not let that cost be in vain.

  The captain predicted that we would arrive the following day, as he stood by me one moonless night on the deck. Waves sounded all around us, but were hard to see. Only the stars illuminated the sky. And I saw no Lighthouse.

  “We are still too far out to sea,” the captain said. “And from a great distance, the Lighthouse lamp looks like another star. But by dawn you should be able to glimpse it.”

  “This has been a good voyage,” I said. “I thank you for bringing us safely across the open water.”

  “Open water has its own dangers, but coming into Alexandria is always tricky, with the reefs and island. That little narrow channel between the Pharos and the breakwater is difficult to steer past, especially when the prevailing north winds are strong. I don’t have much room for error.”

  Yes, but death could also occur on a flat sea, in a calm harbor, when the water was soft and greenish blue. Water was unpredictable. “I have faith in you,” I assured him.

  Long before dawn I was up on deck, waiting for my first glimpse of Alexandria, watching for her to emerge from the formless gray of the horizon. And she arose, glimmering pale and white like a mist, floating above the flat land. The Lighthouse looked like a temple, its fire winking.

  Home! I had returned! My city awaited me!

  Enormous crowds lined the shores of the eastern, palace harbor; the captain had flown the royal banner as we approached, and people came running. On the long voyage, lying in bed, I had imagined the city so many times that seeing it now was no shock. It was the people who were unfamiliar. They were subtly different from Romans, at least as a crowd. Was it the absence of togas? More bright colors? More skin colors and languages?

  We descended the gangplank to tumultuous cries of welcome—less thunderous than the shouts at Caesar’s Triumphs, but loud enough from a crowd that was tiny by comparison. Sweetest of all are the shouts for oneself—I had not had any of my own for two years now.

  “I return to Alexandria with joy!” I cried, holding my arms aloft, reaching toward the sky, thanking Isis for my safe return. “And to you, my people!”

  They roared back. In Rome, I had almost forgotten what they sounded like. The shouts for Caesar were not the same.

  The gates swung open, the palace grounds beckoned—delicate white temples and pavilions; gardens with sapphire-blue flowers bordering the long water channels. The grass was long but still pale, early green.

  How had I left it all for so long? Here was paradise.

  “Iras! Mardian! Olympos!”

  They were all standing on the palace steps, my dearest ministers. One by one they descended, knelt, and then rose.

  “At last!” said Mardian. “You cannot know how I have longed for your return.”

  “What he means is that he is tired of carrying all the duties of the government,” said Olympos. His voice had its familiar sardonic tinge—sorely missed, dear to me now. “He grows as round-shouldered as any scholar in the Museion from the weight of it.”

  “Then you must go to the Gymnasion and build them up,” I said. “I don’t intend to let you put the burden down entirely.”

  I had learned that lesson from watching Caesar: the task of governing was too difficult to be carried by one person alone.
I was fortunate that, unlike him, I had ministers I could trust.

  “Your Majesty,” said Iras, her face shining with a smile. “It has been a very long two years.”

  Her formality was in such contrast to Charmian. I realized that by coming with me to Rome, Charmian would forever be closer to me than anyone else; she had shared that difficult passage with me, and now would be the only one to share any memories of it.

  Standing a little distance behind them was a dark, handsome face. Epaphroditus! I was shocked to see him there, as if his primary business were here now, instead of in a warehouse on the docks.

  “Welcome home, Your Majesty,” he said, stepping forward.

  “I am pleased to see you,” I said. And I was; when had he decided that palace business was not beneath him?

  Inside the palace, the familiar drained away, and I was seeing it all anew. The many small changes in it, the kind we make in the course of everyday living, rendered it foreign. Was this corridor always so dark? Were there always torch holders here?

  Was this how a dead person would feel if he came back to his own home a little while after his death? I felt like my own ghost, walking those corridors again.

  Caesar’s house…the room that had been mine, had been ours…would it already be changed, alien to him? This table gone, fresh paint on the west wall, the mosaic moved…Cleopatra gone….

  Stop, I told myself. Stop, stop. Picture that room no more.

  I was standing in my own old room, the filmy curtains stirring with the harbor air, the blue-tinted, diffuse light filling the chamber. It was pristine, as only a place can be where no one lives. Without human beings, things remain untainted and perfect, stretching on into eternity without a wrinkle, until nature puts an end to them with an earthquake or fire. And then it is a clean, blameless end.

  I shook my head. What disturbing visions I was having! “Dear Iras,” I said, to break the spell, “have you received any letters from me since the winter?” If she had, then that ship had beaten ours, and we had sailed almost as soon as the seas permitted it.

  “No, my lady,” she said.

  “Then you will read it when the news is old. Is not a letter that arrives after its author a peculiar thing?”

  “Not as peculiar as a letter that arrives from a dead person.”

  Caesar! “Have you had word—” I began, then brought myself up short. How absurd. He would not have written me in Alexandria, when I was by his side in Rome. Was I going mad? “—from anyone in that state?” I attempted to make a joke out of it.

  “No, my lady,” she said gently. From the look in her eyes, I knew she guessed what I had thought. “Perhaps you would like to rest now.”

  The bed did look inviting. The horror of Rome, the long sea voyage, my pregnancy—all had drained me, until I was in the weakened state that could long for a bed in the daytime. But I must not begin that way; I must not present such a picture of myself at this crucial time. “Of course not!” I said lightly, my limbs aching. “What sort of person would sleep at noon?”

  “Any person who needs to,” she said pointedly. “But, my lady, what would you have told me in this letter—this letter you have outraced?”

  I could not bear to repeat the news over and over. “I will tell it once, and wait until everyone is gathered to hear it,” I said. “For I need to know what news has reached Alexandria, as well.”

  The remainder of the day I spent reacquainting myself with my own palace, lingering over the views from the upper windows opening out onto the sparkling harbor, running my hands over the marble inlays on the walls, standing in my workroom where the shelves were laden with brass-bound boxes containing old correspondence, copies of decrees, inventories of furnishings, and summaries of tax and census rolls. Even though the full archives were elsewhere, a précis of the kingdom’s business was here.

  My ministers had kept me as well appraised of events in Egypt as was possible, but the long delays in communication meant that I would have to spend several days studying summaries and catching up. I was devoutly thankful that harvests had been good and no catastrophes had happened while I was away.

  Perhaps, while I was with him, some of Caesar’s luck had accrued to me as well.

  I had called a meeting for twilight—hoping I could endure until that hour. This day, beginning with my early rising to see Alexandria, would be extraordinarily long. A bath and a change of costume helped; I was happy to use my deep marble tub again. Floating in the scented water, I looked out on yet more water in the harbor below me. The tub was positioned behind an ivory screen, between the bedchamber and the rooftop garden. Even though it was poised just above the sea, the palace used pure rainwater for its baths and washing, and for this deep tub it was first heated and then cooled slightly, with perfumed oil added to it. I saw the soft sheen of the oil on the surface of the water, making little iridescent ripples, soothing balm for the senses. It seemed preposterous that such comfort, such innocent luxury, could offer itself side by side with a world of violence and death—and still have the power to please us. At bottom, we are appallingly simple creatures.

  I was dressed in clothes I had left behind and almost forgotten, which made them new again. I put on gold jewelry in the Greek style, earrings and necklace, but kept on the pendant Caesar had given me. It must learn to be a friend to all my other necklaces, for it would keep company with them from now on.

  We met in the room used for private dining; this enabled me to stretch out on a couch. I arranged myself before anyone else arrived, covering my feet with the hem of my gown. There would be no food—I did not wish to call attention to myself by whether I did or did not eat.

  First to enter the chamber was Mardian, his ever-more-ample frame draped in a gold-fringed tunic. He smiled and saluted me. “A meeting on the very first day!” He bowed. “I brought all the records—”

  “Oh, I don’t propose to look at records tonight,” I assured him. “That’s much too specific. I merely wanted to speak with you about what has happened in both Rome and Egypt since our last communication.”

  Epaphroditus appeared in the doorway, resplendently dressed, as I had come to expect. He had looked so darkly handsome in crimson; now he looked equally forceful in a deep blue robe.

  Others arrived: Allienus, commander of the four legions guarding the city (Caesar had lately added another); the overseer of the tax collectors; the head customs official; the guardian of the state treasury; the chief priest of Serapis; the inspector of canals and irrigation. And, of course, several scribes.

  One by one they formally greeted me, going through all the set phrases, but I could tell by their expressions and the tone of their voices that they were genuinely happy I had returned.

  “I am blessed to be able to return so safely,” I said. “And blessed to find that you have taken such care of the kingdom while I was away, have guarded and nurtured her so well.” I looked around at all of them. Time to begin, and to begin with the event that loomed over all others. “You have heard about—what has happened in Rome?”

  “Indeed,” said Mardian. “The whole world has heard of it. I expect that even the Kandake in faraway Nubia has heard of it—nay, even in India. The tallest cedar has fallen, and the sound has shaken the world.”

  “I—I was not there,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “But I was told immediately afterward, and it was I who conveyed him to his home and gave him into the hands of—of his wife, Calpurnia.” I paused. All eyes were fastened on me. I should tell it now, all at once, rather than responding to questions. “I was there at the funeral, when he was—was cremated on the bier. I saw the crowd turn frenzied, and behave as if they wished to elevate Caesar to the state of a god.”

  And what afterward? I remembered the blazing fire, the wild shouts, the dark night—but after that, nothing, until I found myself on the ship. But they must not know that; it would cause them to doubt my strength and sanity. “As for afterward—what have you heard?”

&nbs
p; “That Antony, as Consul, has taken his place as head of the government,” said Mardian. “The assassins are very unpopular in Rome, and have failed to keep control. They will probably leave soon, for their own safety.”

  “And what of Octavian?” I asked. Had he received the news yet?

  “The young Caesar—for so he wants to be called now—left Apollonia immediately to claim his inheritance,” said Mardian. “He should be in Rome by now.”

  So he was wading into that nest of confusion and danger! I was surprised; I would have expected him to wait and see what developed first. “The young Caesar?”

  “Why, yes, that is now his name—Gaius Julius Caesar. Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus.”

  That name! That name could belong to only one person! This was a travesty! Before I could say anything, General Allienus spoke up.

  “The legions have hailed him as Caesar,” he said. “Not all of them, of course, but a surprising number. There is magic in that name, and they want their old commander back.” He paused. “As do we all,” he added dutifully.

  “Antony had best come to terms with him,” said Mardian. “He will have to share the power with him. But we know nothing more than this.”

  This was unexpected. Shocks kept spreading out from Rome.

  “We must look to our own safety,” I said. “Egypt had just been recognized as Friend and Ally of the Roman People, which meant that we were guaranteed independence and security. But now—the whole world is unstable.”

  “My legions remain as Caesar positioned them,” said Allienus. “They will protect Egypt from predators.”

  How farsighted of Caesar to have stationed them here! I was deeply grateful.

  “So we will wait together,” I said, “and keep Alexandria well. But what of the rest of the country? Perhaps we should raise more troops to strengthen the line of defense up and down the Nile, as well as east to west along the coast.”

  “If we can afford it,” said Mardian.