The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  “You make me sound sixty, not twenty-seven,” I said. I tried to imagine it, and found myself blushing.

  “Kings take pretty concubines, so why should you not?”

  “Little boys don’t appeal to me.”

  “I didn’t mean that young, I only meant manageable.” He paused. “I have heard that Prince Archelaus of Comana is a brave soldier and well educated.”

  “How old is he?”

  “I don’t know. I can find out!” he said brightly.

  “You do that.” I decided to humor him. “And one other thing—forgive me for changing the subject—is it true about Lepidus?”

  After the battle of Philippi, it seemed that the official Triumvirate was turning into an unofficial Duovirate. The world was to be divided like a cake, but only between Octavian and Antony.

  “Yes, a new report came in just this morning. I left it on your worktable, with your secretary.”

  “Just tell me.” I drew the silk robe, made of many colored scarves, closer around me.

  “They suspect—or claim to suspect, which is different—Lepidus of going behind their backs and being untrustworthy. Therefore, when they divided the Roman empire between them—and let us call it that, for it is an empire by any measure—they have ignored him.”

  “Who got what?” I asked.

  “Antony is hero of the day; his prestige stands highest in all the world,” Mardian said. “He has taken the best parts—all of Gaul, as well as the entire east. He will be master of our part of the world, and presumably carry out Caesar’s plan to subdue Parthia.”

  “And Octavian?” How had Octavian allowed that? But the man lying sick in his tent or being carried about in a litter could not dictate terms to the soldier-hero.

  “He has only Spain and Africa, and two onerous duties to fulfill: He must settle the veterans in Italy, finding land and money for them, and he must pursue Sextus, the pirate son of Pompey. Thankless tasks.”

  Thankless, but demanding. They should tie Octavian’s hands for a long time. I smiled. This was not what he had bargained for.

  After he had gone, I allowed myself to stretch out on the couch while Iras massaged the sweet oil into my skin. I closed my eyes and gave myself up to the scent and the sensation.

  “Madam, do you think to follow his suggestion?” Iras whispered. “Your skin must be restored to its perfection before you meet any princes!”

  “I only said it to please him,” I murmured. The perfumed oil and the rubbing were making me drowsy. “It would take more than a pretty prince to…to…” My voice trailed off.

  To awaken that part of me that slept a winter sleep, I thought. Perhaps it had slept so long it had died quietly, without a murmur of protest.

  Mardian enjoyed himself thoroughly, searching the world over for suitable candidates for my hand. He came up with Idumaeans, Greeks, Paphlagonians, Nubians—including the Kandake’s own son—Galatians, and Armenians. Just to vex him, I had made a list of essential characteristics. I figured that the chances of someone meeting them all was remote. He must be at least twenty, he must be a head taller than I, athletic, good at mathematics, speak a minimum of three languages, have lived abroad, play a musical instrument well, know Greek literature, know the sea and sailing, and be descended of a great royal house. Those were my minimum requirements, I said. Poor Mardian!

  The harvest was good, and we began to make up our losses for the year before. I was able to commission sixty new ships, as well as order the most decrepit of the dikes and reservoir basins to be repaired, and I now had twenty thousand soldiers under arms. Neither the army nor the navy was up to full strength—the Romans would laugh at them—but it was a beginning, and we surely had made progress from our low point when the fleet was wrecked.

  To my consternation, Mardian’s prime candidate, Archelaus of Comana, was not disqualified from the “competition.” Mardian prevailed on me to invite him for a ceremonial visit.

  “For even if it is a sham,” he said, “it will please your people. They will feel that you are at least trying to remedy the problem.”

  Kasu, the monkey, padded forward and offered Mardian a platter of dates. She was so well trained by now, she could almost function as a servant. Mardian pursed his lips and took a long time to select the plumpest one he could. “Umm,” he said. “These must be from Derr.”

  He had the true palate of a connoisseur. “Your tongue tells you true,” I said. Kasu scampered back to me, and jumped up in the chair beside me. “I forgot to add one other requirement: He should like animals, especially monkeys. He should not mind a monkey perched at the foot of the bed.”

  Mardian shrugged, licking off his fingers. “Too late now,” he said. “I am sure that Archelaus will pretend to like her.”

  “When is he coming?” My spirits sank at the thought of it. I never should have gone along with it this long.

  “As soon as he and his family have finished paying court to Antony,” he said. “Everyone in the region, all the client kings, have to report to him, offer up their crowns, and wait for his approval and reappointment.”

  I took one of the dates myself, and nibbled on it. They were sweet—almost too sweet, artificially so. “All the client kingdoms—there are a great many of them,” I said. “And each one will have to be reviewed separately. Some were wholeheartedly for the assassins, others were forced to support them. Now they will all claim to have been coerced. And they were stripped of money, too.”

  “Antony knows that. He, of course, has to extract money as well. But at least he listens to people. The orator Hybreas of Mylasa said that if he expected them to provide ten years’ taxes in one year, he could doubtless provide them with two summers instead of the usual one. And Antony relented.”

  “Where is he now?” I wondered. He had started out in Athens, that I knew.

  “Ephesus. He has been holding a riotous court there for weeks, being hailed as Dionysus and even being called a god.”

  “He must like that,” I said. “It’s better than Octavian, who is only son of a god. But the Ephesians call everybody who is anybody a god—I hope he realizes that.”

  Mardian laughed. “I don’t think he cares. He’s too busy with Glaphyra, Archelaus’s mother. She seems to be—er, putting her claims before him.”

  For some odd reason I was shocked. It seemed so—unfair. I pictured all the male rulers milling about, waiting their turn, while Glaphyra went to the head of the line.

  “So you see, as soon as his mother has been satisfied, Archelaus will be free to leave.”

  No, what he meant was that as soon as Antony had been satisfied, the mother could depart. I shook my head. “That may be some time yet,” I said. I should be thankful: As long as Glaphyra held Antony’s attention, I would be spared her son’s.

  The court of Dionysus continued for months, with parades of a crowned Antony pulled in a grape-laden chariot, accompanied by women dressed as bacchantes and men as satyrs and Pans, wreathed in ivy and carrying thyrsi, playing zithers and flutes, crying out welcome for “the bringer of joy,” Dionysus-Antony. The shouts reverberated over all the east. He must be enjoying himself, I thought. I wondered what Octavian would have done at Ephesus? He would probably have righteously forgone the exotic trappings and indulged himself with the women secretly, after hours. He liked his pleasures to be furtive. Perhaps he liked them only if they were furtive.

  Some six months later, a Roman appeared at my court, sent by Antony. It was Quintus Dellius, a man famed for his ability to change horses in midstream, like one of those dexterous circus riders. He had been Dolabella’s man, then Cassius’s, now he was Antony’s. I disliked him before I even saw him, therefore I kept him waiting as long as possible before admitting him to an audience.

  Unfortunately the hapless Archelaus had arrived at almost the same time, traveling eagerly over land and sea to come to my court. I felt sorry for him, and that predisposed me to like him—the opposite of Dellius. But he would have to wait until
I had dealt with Dellius.

  At length Dellius stood before me, his eyes level with mine, as I was seated on an elevated throne. He had very dark eyes and a pitted complexion that made him look hard. Although he was standing, legs apart, and I seated, he gave the impression that it was he conducting the audience.

  “Greetings, most exalted Queen of Egypt, from Lord Antony,” he said Iaconically. “I am come from his lordship to order you to appear before his court to answer certain charges.”

  Surely I had not heard him right. “Would you repeat that?” I said in a level tone.

  “I said, Lord Antony requests that you report to him to defend yourself against certain accusations—accusations which are spelled out in this letter.” He handed me a scroll, then stepped back smartly. He was almost smirking.

  “Requests me,” I said, considering the word. “For a moment I thought you said he ‘ordered’ me.”

  “Lord Antony would be most pleased if you would come to him in person to explain certain things.”

  “Now he would be ‘most pleased,’ and I am only to ‘explain’ matters, not defend myself or answer charges,” I said coaxingly. “Things are softening by the moment.” I clutched the scroll. I would read it later—not in front of this haughty, hostile man. “And where am I to come?”

  “To Tarsus, where he will move shortly,” Dellius said.

  “You may tell Lord Antony that the Queen of Egypt does not respond to rude requests, nor obey a Roman magistrate, nor have to defend herself. I am disappointed that my ally, once my friend, would see fit to approach me in such a manner. Unless you have misrepresented him?” I gave him the opportunity to clear Antony.

  “So that is your answer?” he asked, bypassing it. “You will not come?”

  “No,” I said. “Let him come here if he wishes to speak to me. He knows the way. He was here fourteen years ago. He will not have forgotten.”

  Alone in my chamber later, I read the scroll and found its charges ridiculous: that I had helped Cassius and Brutus! That I had sent the four Roman legions to them! He must know that they had been sent to Dolabella, and captured by Cassius. And it was the traitorous Serapion who had turned the fleet stationed at Cyprus over to them. I had lost a fortune in trying to bring my fleet to Brundisium for the Triumvirs. How could he have forgotten that? I was deeply insulted.

  But later I could not help wondering if others had whispered these suggestions to Antony—Glaphyra, or Octavian himself? Especially Octavian, who would be happy to discredit the mother of Caesarion, and sever his tie to Rome.

  Archelaus had been waiting for several days, and after Dellius had been packed off, I braced myself to see him. Before I betook myself to the audience hall to welcome him formally (Mardian had done so in my stead already, but now it must be repeated), I let Iras do what she longed to: apply cosmetics to my face and dress my hair. In the meantime, Charmian was to select the costume.

  Why did I do this? Did I hope to frighten him off if I looked too artificially colorful, too over-costumed? Although I was the richest, most powerful woman in the world—how lightly that phrase falls, here!—I knew well enough how to put someone at his ease by being approachably human. I also knew how to keep people at a distance. It was all in the manner: the tilt of the head, the tone of voice, the look in the eyes.

  I seated myself on a bench where the north light would fall on my upturned face and said, “Very well, Iras, perform your magic.” I shut my eyes and waited.

  Her deft fingers patted the skin on my cheeks and traced the line of my jaw. “The treatment has worked,” she said. “The ill effects of all that salt are gone.”

  A pity, I thought. It should have lasted a bit longer—at least until this suitor went home.

  She spread a creamy lotion all over my face, rubbing it in with circular strokes.

  It had a delicious aroma.

  “Oil and cyperus grass, my lady,” she said. “Now I will remove it with the mixed juices of sycamore and cucumber.” She applied linen pads soaked with the juices and rubbed my face. It began to tingle.

  “This will make the skin look as fine as polished marble,” she said. “Although it does not need much improvement. Now, I will cool your eyes with a wash of ground celery and hemp. Keep them closed.”

  She laid two cool bandages on my eyes and said, “Rest and think of a cool mountain.”

  The weight on my eyelids seemed to alter my thoughts, and I drifted away to someplace I had never seen—a wooded hillside with tall cypress trees and sheep grazing, where light breezes played.

  “Now,” said Iras, removing the pads, bringing me back to the room. Where had I been? “For lining the eyes, do you prefer black kohl today, or the green malachite?”

  “The malachite,” I said. “Kohl is for every day, and this is not an everyday occurrence—meeting a candidate for my hand.” If it were just for holding my hand, I would not be so defensive.

  She took a cosmetic stick and drew fine lines all around my eyes, over the lids and beyond the corners. “Now open.” She held a mirror up. “See how the green deepens the natural green of your eyes.”

  Yes, it did. Caesar had loved the color of my eyes—he said they were the shade of the Nile in shadow. But since then, I had not worn the green; I let the kohl make my eyes darker. I nodded, surprised at how bright they looked.

  She dipped her finger in a small pot of ram’s fat mixed with red ochre, and dabbed it on my mouth, reddening it. “There!” she sighed. “You hide your lips and their shape when you leave them uncolored.”

  I was beginning to look—not like a stranger, but like a very enhanced version of myself.

  “Your hair is gleaming from the juniper juice and oil we rinsed it in last night. Now all I must do is comb it and braid it with gold ornaments.”

  “That is good,” said Charmian, behind me. “For I had selected the green gown with gold embroidery.” I turned to see the gown she was holding; it was in the Phoenician fashion, with gathered shoulders and a panel to float from the back.

  “I think you are readying me for Mount Olympus, to be received by the gods,” I said. “It will be a letdown to walk into my own audience hall.”

  “For you, perhaps, but not for him,” Charmian said. “He has traveled a long way, after all, just to see this.”

  I sighed. Poor man—poor boy—whichever he was. Mardian had been vague about that. “Yes, yes,” I said, standing still while Charmian lowered the gown over my head. Another servant brought gold-braided sandals and put them on my feet—feet that had also been rubbed with fragrant oil. Now Iras set to work on my hair, and Charmian brought out a jewel box and selected an emerald necklace and gold and pearl earrings. She also presented a bracelet shaped like a cobra.

  “It is his gift, my lady,” she said. “Archelaus brought it, and wished you to wear it.”

  “I see.” I took it and examined it. It was exquisitely fashioned, each scale of the snake rendered realistically, and the eyes were ruby. Against my will, I was touched. How could he have known my partiality to snakes? I put it on.

  I entered the hall ceremonially, passing a knot of people on one side without looking at them, until I mounted the steps of my throne-platform. Then I turned and welcomed them, bidding Prince Archelaus of Comana to come forward.

  From out of the group of courtiers, envoys, and scribes a tall young man detached himself and made his way to me. He carried himself like a prince, neither obsequious nor haughty, I thought, and I was surprised to see how comely and pleasing he looked.

  “Welcome, Prince Archelaus,” I said. “We are pleased to receive you at Alexandria.”

  He smiled. “And I, most exalted Queen Cleopatra of Egypt, am honored to be here.”

  I wanted to find his words or manner unappealing, but they were winsome.

  I extended my arm. “I thank you for your gift. It is most beautiful.”

  “The artisans in Comana are skilled,” he said. “It was my pleasure to commission it.”


  After more of these public pleasantries, I invited him to join me in the pavilion on the palace grounds and dine in the open air. I also pointedly dismissed all the attendants and spying servants. Together we descended the wide steps of the palace and walked across the green lawn to the white, shaded pavilion, where a table and couches were already waiting. He walked very gracefully, and took long strides. He was also quite a bit taller than the one head I had specified.

  We settled ourselves on the couches, reclining as custom dictated. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at me. Suddenly we both burst out laughing, as if we were conspirators together. I had just undone all the careful, formal costuming of myself.

  “Forgive me,” I finally said. “I am not laughing at you.”

  “I know that.” And I knew he did. “Nor am I laughing at you. I suppose I am laughing in relief. I almost did not come, and a hundred times on the journey I asked myself why I did come. I felt a fool.”

  “You were brave,” I said. “I appreciate that.” I looked carefully at him. He seemed about my own age, with dark, straight hair and a mouth like that of Apollo. I wondered if his mother was likewise attractive, compelling Antony’s interest.

  “It was worth the journey, just to see you,” he said.

  “Please. Do not resort to timeworn formulas.”

  He smiled. “The trouble with timeworn formulas is that once in a while they are true, and then no one believes you.”

  “Tell me about your kingdom,” I said, shying away from the personal. “I have never traveled anywhere except Rome and Nubia.” I was becoming more curious about the rest of the world.

  He explained that it was a region of Cappadocia, but not as mountainous, and had maintained its independence—just barely. “The Roman eagle is pecking away at us, but so far has not carried us off to her nest.”

  “Yes, I know all about that.”