The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  Slowly some odd feeling of both urgency and lethargy stole through me. I felt my arm around Antony’s waist, felt the flesh through the tunic, and my limbs were heavy. I wanted to lie down, but at the same time felt inhibitions melting away—the sense of time, of propriety, of order. My head spun. We stumbled back down the steps. He was as affected as I.

  A doorway beckoned. A proprietress waited. We went in. Payment was made.

  We were in a large, high-ceilinged room with two little windows and a frame bed with leather thongs for a mattress. My mantle was lifted off, falling heavily to my feet. The sword came off. I clung to Antony, feeling odd and transported. I knew I was drugged, but I did not care. I floated. He had had more of it than I, and was even more affected.

  His movements seemed slow, suspended. Or was that merely my strange perception?

  I held him, and the world spun. There seemed to be only this man, this place, this moment. The world stopped spinning and narrowed down to just this room. I had no past, no future, only this very present.

  We were on the bare bed, its crisscross of thongs making patterns in our flesh. Outside I could hear, drifting in from some remote place, the sounds of the revelers and customers below. But in this chamber, empty, barren, I clasped Antony to me, as the only solid thing in this melting, shifting sphere I was swimming in.

  He was kissing me, turning me over and over, his breath—almost the only reality I felt—hot on my shoulders, my neck, my breasts. Was he speaking? I could not hear. My ears were stopped. All my senses, except that of touch, had fled. I felt every sensation on my skin, but did not hear, smell, taste, see. My flesh was alive, every particle of it, inside and out.

  I know he made love to me, and I to him, for hours through that long, foreign night, but such were the effects of the drug that it all subsumes into one superb blending of our persons, sublime and protracted. I cannot tease out one singular instance, but only grasp, fleetingly, in dreams, the remembrance of the whole.

  How we left that chamber, and how we returned to Alexandria, will forever be lost to me, but somehow we did. And I awoke the next morning—or perhaps it was the morning after that—in my own bed in my own chamber, the bright morning light from the harbor dancing on the walls, and Charmian bending anxiously over me.

  46

  “At last!” she said as I opened my eyes. The light hurt them.

  “Here.” She laid a compress of cucumber juice on my eyelids; the fresh, astringent smell of it was like a miracle after the artificial, heavy odors of Canopus.

  “What did you drink? A sleeping potion?”

  The green, heavy liquid—I remembered its glint of emerald coloring, its oversweet taste. “It had that effect,” I said. Actually that was the least of its effects. I would have blushed about the behavior it had induced in the rented room—if I could remember the details. I sighed. “I made the mistake of drinking something offered off the streets.” Antony had had more than I. “What of Lord Antony? Where is he?”

  “No one has seen him.” She laid her hands on mine. “But he is back in his quarters, never fear. His guards saw him enter.”

  I hoped he was not too miserable. I raised one corner of the compress and looked at Charmian. “I saw you with—with—”

  “Flavius,” she finished.

  “Was he as—personable as you hoped?” She had looked happy enough when I passed her.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. I wondered what had happened, whether this would lead anywhere. He was not exactly Apollo, as she had said she was looking for, but he would do as an earthly substitute.

  After a few minutes I got up, swinging my feet over the side of the bed and touching the cool, washed marble floor. In spite of everything, I felt oddly rested.

  Outside, the sea was beating against the breakwaters and smashing the base of the Lighthouse. It was mid-January, and the seas were closed to shipping. Very little could enter the port, and almost nothing could leave it, save by land. The caravans were still coming from the east with their luxury goods, but letters, grain, oil, and wine did not move. It was the time Epaphroditus and his assistants spent in inventories and compilations, girding themselves for another year.

  I sent for Caesarion, who came as soon as he had finished that morning’s lessons. He had an old tutor from the Museion, the same one I had had, Apollonius. He had been dull but thorough, and I thought he would make a gentle start in learning for Caesarion. He never raised his voice, which had the sometimes unfortunate effect of putting you to sleep.

  “I thought perhaps we might eat together, and you can tell me what you are studying,” I said. “And how your lizard is.”

  His face lit up. “Oh, the lizard is fine! He’s learned a new trick since the one pulling the cart. Today he hid in my boot. I almost squashed him when I put them on!” He burst into high, pealing laughter.

  “And your studies?” I asked. Charmian was setting bread and fig paste out for us, as well as goat cheese and olives. Caesarion reached for them eagerly.

  “Oh—” His face fell. “I was memorizing the list of Pharaohs, but there are so many of them…. ” He bit off a big piece of bread and kept talking. “And it was all so long ago…and I wish they were more than just names, I wish I knew what they looked like and if they had big feet…and if they ever had lizards in their shoes.”

  “What of your grammar?”

  He looked puzzled.

  “Doesn’t Apollonius teach you grammar?”

  “No, just the list of the Pharaohs,” he said. “And other lists of battles. And sometimes he makes me memorize a speech. Listen: ‘Teach him what has been said in the past; then he will set a good example to the children of the magistrates, and judgment and all exactitude shall enter into him. Speak to him, for none is born wise.’ ”

  “Hmm. What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s from the Maxims of Ptahhotpe!” he said brightly. “Here’s another. ‘Do not be arrogant because of your knowledge, but confer with the ignorant man as with the learned. Good speech is more hidden than malachite, yet it is found in the possession of women slaves at the millstones.’ ”

  According to that, the proprietress in Canopus might have had gems of wisdom to impart. Perhaps she had. But obviously I must replace Apollonius. He was too old, and his teaching was not right for a child. I spread some of the fig paste on my bread. “Very good. We must follow that advice,” I said solemnly.

  Just then there was a commotion, and I heard Charmian saying, “Yes, they are here, but—” and before she could announce him, Antony walked into the room.

  He looked perfectly normal, no trace of even a headache. I stared at him, amazed.

  “Greetings, Your Majesty,” he said, addressing Caesarion directly. He nodded toward me, winking. “I thought perhaps you might be bored on a cold, windy day like this. It has been a long time since you could sail in the harbor or even ride, hasn’t it?”

  How well he knew little boys. Of course, that was because in some ways he was still one himself.

  “Oh yes, it’s tiring,” he agreed. “And my lessons are so boring!”

  “How would you like to try some different lessons?” Antony asked, whisking out a small shield and sword. “Some soldiering lessons?”

  Caesarion looked greedily at the gear. “Oh yes,” he said.

  “I had them made just for you,” Antony said. “The blade is dull, you won’t have to worry about cutting anyone’s head off.” He laughed.

  Only then did I see that someone had trailed in behind Antony. It was Nicolaus of Damascus. He just stood quietly in the shadows.

  “And for when you’re not fighting, I have someone who loves to tell stories to entertain boys,” he said. “He knows ones you could never guess.” He motioned for Nicolaus to come in. “He’ll tell you all about the Persian fire devils.”

  Obviously something more appealing than the list of Pharaohs.

  “Oh yes!” said Caesarion, forgetting all about his food. “When
can we go practice with the sword? Can we go now? Can we?”

  “Whenever your mother says.” He cocked his head at me. “I will take him this afternoon. I think he has the makings of a soldier. It would be surprising if he didn’t, with Caesar for a father and such a fierce warrior queen for a mother.”

  “Perhaps you should teach me, too. I cannot handle a sword very well.”

  “You handled it well enough the other night.”

  I still had it, and realized he was asking for it back. “It is safe. Charmian, bring it to me.” I took it and handed it back to Antony. “Keep wearing it with honor,” I said.

  When they returned at dusk, Caesarion was flushed and excited. He was wearing a little set of body armor and a helmet, and he flashed his sword up and down and made stabbing motions. He rushed at the curtains and poked a hole in them.

  Antony said, “We’ll do this often. He takes to it, and I think he needs it. Too much time indoors in the palace won’t make a man of him. When he’s older, he can come with me on campaigns—oh, not to fight, but just to see what it’s like to be out in the field.”

  I felt hot tears pushing to spill out of my eyes. All the things Caesar would have done for him! Thank the gods that Antony had come, a man who understood boys and could do for him what I could not. Growing up among women and eunuchs was not enough for a son of Caesar, who would be called upon to do great things, as a man among men.

  “Thank you,” I said, unable to say more.

  The days spun on. Looking back, they seem a multicolored blend, like the scarves of a whirling dancer. With the idleness of winter, there was no guilt in pausing from the business of the world. The Amimetobioi—the Incomparables—met often and outdid one another in dicing, drinking, banqueting. At the palace there were always several oxen roasting, in different stages of doneness, so that no matter what the hour or the number of guests, we could be fed on a moment’s notice. Another member kept geese always turning on the spit, another a continual profusion of honey cakes, each flavored with different honey—precious ones like Attic and Rhodian and Carian and Hymettan, and obscure ones from Spain and Cappadocia. Wines gushed, from the sticky-sweet, precious Pramnian, to the apple-scented wine of the island of Thasos, to that of Byblos, and the Chian, poured from its sphinx-stamped amphorae. There were hunting and elephant rides and chariot races with tame panthers trotting alongside, down the wide streets of the city and out beyond the walls to the sandy ridges.

  Alone, at night Antony and I would roam the streets of Alexandria, disguised, as he liked to do, wandering past the monumental buildings and private homes, listening to conversations, overhearing the songs and quarrels of common people; in our chambers we traded clothes and I became a man while he was a richly appareled courtesan. It was all a dizzy round of pretending, of playacting; we were playing as surely as Caesarion with his sword and shield. In this way I had at last the childhood I had skipped—mine had been too serious and dangerous to have afforded such lighthearted silliness, such lack of concern for safety.

  Late at night, together in our darkened room, it felt as if the entire world were concentrated in that one chamber; the rest had vanished, had receded into the night, and would not encroach upon us.

  “I wonder what I did before I loved you,” he said once, idly, his fingers tracing patterns on my back.

  “I don’t think you were lonely,” I said. But for some reason I was not jealous of who had come before. It could not have been like this.

  “No, not lonely.” He laughed softly. “But it was all just a rehearsal. Everyone now seems only an early dream of you.”

  I sighed, and turned my head. It was resting on his shoulder, happy in its home there. “Dreams,” I said. “This seems like a dream. This room, this bed, seems a magic kingdom.”

  “Where we are both King and Queen and the only citizens,” he said, tracing the line of my nose, my lips. “An unusual kingdom.”

  “Oh, Antony, I love you,” I said, the words tumbling out. “You have freed me.”

  “How can a queen be freed?” he asked.

  “You have set me free in a garden—a garden of earthly delights, which bloom without any effort.” Yes, since he had come I felt I was walking through such a garden—filled with exotic, many-petaled flowers that opened their perfumed throats just for my pleasure whenever I passed by. The shade was always waiting, and there were cool mists and hidden bowers around every corner.

  “I would call them unearthly delights,” he said. “For nothing happens on earth without our efforts, my love.” He turned his head to mine and kissed me, a long, lingering kiss. “Even this.” And it did take an effort for me to raise my head.

  Gradually the winter relaxed its grip on the sea, and our isolation ended. I could feel it ebbing in the increased warmth of the sun and the steady decline in the ferocity of the waves and storms. Always before I had longed for the end of winter; now I dreaded it. I did not want my magic kingdom breached. I wanted to live in it forever, or until I was so sated with love and pleasure that I finally cried, “Hold! Enough!”

  I was not at that stage when the first ships arrived, plying the path between Italy and Egypt, Syria and Egypt. Messengers rushed ashore, official ones with the insignia of the Roman army, and sought Antony out. Their news was grim.

  “It’s all gone to hell,” he said, shaking his head, when I found him. At his feet were the curled letters from Tyre and Rome, lying forlornly.

  “What is it?” I bent down to pick them up, but waited for him to tell me.

  “War in Italy,” he said. “My wife…” he paused.

  Yes, the magic kingdom had been breached. The world was back with us.

  “My wife, Fulvia, and my brother, Lucius, seem to have gone to war against Octavian.”

  “What?” I started to read the letter, but it was very long.

  “It’s complicated. But it seems they felt that Octavian was taking advantage of his position to settle his own veterans, giving them all the best land, and taking credit even for what he gave mine. So they have launched a campaign against him—and are even now being besieged in the mountain city of Perusia.” He ran his hands through his hair. “All my legions are hovering, but without a signal from me, they have not moved. And a good thing, too.”

  “Why is that a good thing?” I asked. It was never good to be beaten.

  “Why, because it would violate my compact with Octavian.” He looked surprised that I would even ask. “We are partners, remember? The civil wars are over.”

  “It would seem they are not.” I paused. “Not if he is trying to discredit you.”

  Antony frowned. “He’s not trying to discredit me, he just—he just—”

  “Then why have Fulvia and Lucius gone to war against him?”

  “It seems they are too anxious for my rights.”

  It seemed that the anxiety was on Antony’s part—to protect Octavian. “Is it not possible that Octavian acted wrongly?”

  “Well, he—” Antony paused. “I need more information before coming to a conclusion.” He leaned down and picked up the other letter. “Nothing ambiguous about this.” He handed it to me.

  I skimmed it. It was terrible. The Parthians had overrun Syria, killed Saxa, Antony’s governor there, and even taken Jerusalem. Everything was gone but Tyre. The two legions in Syria, along with their eagles, now belonged to Parthia. They had got more for their collection, to add to those of Crassus.

  “Oh, the legions!” cried Antony. “The shame of it!”

  His client kings, the ones who had so obsequiously paid court to him last autumn, had not proved very stalwart. Perhaps it was time they were replaced.

  “Only Herod showed any initiative,” said Antony. “He got away, and held out at Masada.”

  “Good for him,” I said. At least someone had.

  “A war on two fronts,” he said, shaking his head. “I am involved in a war on two fronts.”

  The war in Italy was a nasty little war. Octavian even
descended to having his slingers fire stones engraved with such sentiments as “Give it to Fulvia!” into the enemy camp. He also let loose with an obscene epigram to the effect that:

  Glaphyra’s fucked by Antony. Fulvia claims

  A balancing fuck from me. I hate such games.

  Manius begs me: must I bugger him?

  No, if I’m wise, no humoring his whim.

  Fuck or else fight! she cries. But still I’ve found

  Dearer than life my prick. Let trumpets sound.

  He must be desperate—to reveal his true colors. Antony seemed to find the verses amusing.

  “Octavian has divorced Claudia,” said Antony, out of nowhere. “He must have truly turned against me.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. This was several days after the first letter. More had come in in the meantime. Once the seas opened, we were pelted with them.

  “He likes to cement treaties with personal ties. He asked to marry into my family, when we became Triumvirs together. The best I could come up with was Claudia, Fulvia’s daughter, since all we had was sons—young ones at that. And so he married her.”

  Octavian, married. How odd that seemed! “I didn’t know,” I said.

  “But he’s divorced her, sent her back to Fulvia. He said she was ‘intact’—still a virgin. Married three years, and he didn’t touch her!”

  “He must have planned this all along,” I said. His self-control and long-range planning were almost unhuman. “He always thinks ahead.”

  Antony shook his head. “It is so—coldblooded.”

  “Yes. He is a formidable enemy.” My measures of him, no matter how extreme they seemed at the time, always fell short. He was beyond anything I had ever encountered—resolute, implacable, unshakable in the pursuit of his goal. I remembered his struggle to reach Caesar in Spain after his shipwreck. Always there was Octavian, crawling out of some wreckage or other, wet, weak, injured—and still coming. I shivered.