The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  “And you don’t wear clothes like that, either. And I certainly never wear a transparent kilt!” He laughed. “I think the double crown is so big it would snap my head off.”

  “Yes, crowns can be very heavy. At least that kind can be. So we only wear them ceremonially. When you are crowned at Memphis, you’ll have one if you wish. But by that time you’ll have a very strong, heavy neck, because I intend to live a long time.” I cocked my head. “This is the wrong time of day to see the carvings—not enough shadow. We should come back at sunset.”

  “They’ve made me as tall as you,” he said proudly.

  “Well, you almost are. You are tall, like your father.” And he had kept the resemblance, with the same broad face and keen, deep-set eyes.

  “My father,” he said quietly. “It makes me sad that I can never see him.”

  “Yes, it makes me sad too.”

  “Well, at least you have seen him, and can remember. He died before I was old enough to have memories. Did he really look like the bust in my room?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Roman art is quite realistic. It is a very good likeness. But, you know, if you learned Latin, you could read his works. His writing was famous. In that way you could come to know him; people can speak to us through what they write.”

  “But it’s just about battles and marches; it isn’t about him.”

  “His battles are him.”

  “Oh, you know what I mean! He didn’t write essays or speeches, like Cicero. That’s easier to see someone in.”

  “I think he did write them, but I don’t know if they were published. They may have been among his papers after he died. If so, then perhaps Antony still has them—or knows where they are. He took charge of everything in the house…afterward.”

  “He probably left them back in Rome, and Mardian says he’ll never go back to Rome again, that Octavian has shut him out and won’t allow him back.”

  “That’s a lie! He can return whenever he wishes. But why would he wish to, before he’s defeated the Parthians? After that, he can go to Rome as ruler, and shut Octavian out.”

  Caesarion shrugged. “Mardian said that Octavian called him back to Italy and then refused to meet with him. Mardian says that it set Antony’s Parthian campaign back by a whole year. Mardian says that’s probably what he wanted—Octavian, I mean—”

  “Mardian does like to talk,” I said lightly. “It’s true that Octavian begged Antony to come and bring ships to Italy to help in the war with Sextus, and then changed his mind. But it has not cost Antony any time in Parthia. His general Bassus has beaten the Parthians out of Syria and back over the Euphrates again. Now the real campaign can begin.”

  “Good. I think he must be ready to fight at last.”

  “Did Mardian also tell you that Octavian has been beaten time and again by Sextus? He all but drowned in trying to fight him; half his fleet was wrecked in the Strait of Messina. Scylla on her rock almost devoured Octavian himself; he barely managed to wash ashore and crawl to safety.” But he somehow always managed to crawl to safety, I thought—crawl, rest up, and gather his forces.

  “No, he didn’t,” Caesarion admitted.

  “Octavian’s losing is getting to be a joke,” I said. “The Romans made up a verse about him: ‘He’s lost his fleet, and lost the battle, twice. Someday he’ll win; why else keep throwing dice?’ ”

  “You seem to know a great deal about him,” said Caesarion.

  “I make it my business to know,” I said.

  Someday he’ll win; why else keep throwing dice? I shivered, even in the warm sun.

  “Come,” I said, steering him in the direction of the anxious, hovering chief priest. They wished to honor us by a meal, held under a shaded trellis.

  I saw him watching the temple from his seat, his gaze always going back to the carving of himself in that strange garb. He struggled with Egyptian, trying hard not to lapse back into Greek, and the priest seemed flattered.

  The drowsy noontime seemed to lay calming hands on our heads. Here, almost four hundred miles upriver, all the things I was so preoccupied with in Alexandria faded to unimportance. Here we were hidden, protected, given sanctuary. This was the true Egypt, the motherland, where Rome could not reach us. If all else failed, my children could rule here unmolested.

  If all else failed…but I must not think of failure. It would be failure indeed if Caesar’s true heir, and the children of a Triumvir, had to content themselves with less than their due inheritance. And that inheritance, for better or worse, was part of the Roman world.

  But, ah! How delightful it was to recline beneath the arbor, luxuriating in the dry heat, seeing the white butterflies dancing overhead. Everything here was either brown or green or white.

  “Tell me about Hathor,” Caesarion was saying. “The goddess who presides over this temple.”

  The priest’s eyes lit up. “She is our ancient goddess of beauty, joy, and music.”

  “Like Isis?” he asked.

  “Yes, only older. Although we believe they may just be manifestations of each other. And once the Greeks came, they thought she was also Aphrodite.”

  How different this Egyptian-style temple, with its solid walls, its carvings, its darkened sanctuary, was from the Roman one Caesar had likewise built to honor the goddess of beauty. Both saluted her in appropriate ways. Beauty…we all worship her, we all stand in awe of beauty. It is the one god we all seem to agree upon.

  “You have been most generous, Majesty, in providing for the temple,” the priest was saying. “As were your ancestors.”

  “As heirs of the Pharaohs, we are honored to do so,” I said. We Ptolemies had tried to keep Egyptian religion, art, and architecture intact; Greek influence was confined to only a few cities. Some had accused us of becoming more Egyptian than the Egyptians, by taking up brother-sister marriage, decking out the temples, honoring the sacred bulls of Apis, and being crowned at Memphis. Others said it was just political guile. Perhaps it was for some, but in my own life I felt a pull toward the ancient Egyptian ways, and the old stones and gods spoke to me.

  As the sun sank low in the sky, we stood once more looking at the figures on the temple. Now the lines were etched dark by shadows, and the Queen and King stood majestically tall, their elaborate headdresses towering above them, every detail of their wigs and jewelry sharp and clear.

  “Here you will be Pharaoh for eternity,” I said to Caesarion. “You will always be young and handsome, always be offering gladsome gifts to the gods.”

  Art allows us to do that, while life hurries us on to our crumbling ends.

  We had several events to celebrate. First, there was Caesarion’s tenth birthday. Then there was the sudden marriage of Olympos to a quiet, even-tempered woman with a bent for scholarly study. There was the welcome news from Epaphroditus that our harvests had exceeded expectations—owing to a combination of a good Nile and freshly dredged canals—and our exports of glass and papyrus were booming. My rebuilt navy was almost complete, with two hundred new ships. Ambassadors from all over the east were flocking to us, courting us. I had even been able to issue new coinage with increased silver content. I had a pile of them on the table, as a proud display. Egypt was not only surviving, she was thriving.

  Mardian picked one up and looked at it appreciatively. “There is no weight so pleasing as a heavy silver coin—unless it’s a heavy gold one!” He was finely arrayed in a reworked silk robe, and thick gold armlets gleamed on his forearms.

  “Perhaps you’d like to contribute your armlets to be melted down,” I said, eyeing them.

  He laughed and crossed his arms to shield them. “Never!”

  Epaphroditus took one of the coins and examined it. “We must be the envy of the Romans,” he said. “Lately they have had to debase their coinage, since the menace of Sextus so threatens their food supply—indeed, while he ranges unchecked, their whole economy trembles in the balance.”

  “Even Antony has felt the pinch,” said Mardian. �
�Far away from Rome, he too has had to debase his coinage.”

  So Octavia’s face would beam out from a coin that was more copper than silver? Pity.

  I put my hands over my own coins possessively. If Egypt was strong and prosperous, it was because of my policies and the good ministers I had.

  “Ah! The bridegroom!” I saluted Olympos as he arrived. “We all congratulate you.”

  It seemed odd to me that he was now married, the first of my inner attendants to be so. Certainly I had urged it on him for years, yet now that it had happened I found myself wondering if his wife would be worthy of him, would understand him. I hoped she was not as lost in her manuscripts as some women were in the kitchen. One extreme was as bad as the other. I remembered Olympos saying once, “There is only one thing more tedious than a stupid person, and that is a pedantic one.”

  “Yes, I have entered the blessed realm,” he said. As a joke? “Come, give me some wine!”

  “Because marriage is such thirsty work?” asked Mardian archly.

  “You said it, not I,” said Olympos, taking a cup and draining it. It occurred to me that although Olympos knew an unseemly amount about that side of my own life, I would never know about his. He would never share it with me, as I was forced to share mine with him: a strange privilege of physicians. That did not stop my curiosity, though.

  “Is Dorcas to join us today?” I asked. I had yet to see her.

  “No, she is at the Library. Besides, you didn’t invite her.”

  “That’s her imagination. Of course the invitation was for both of you.”

  “I will tell her. Later.”

  I wondered if he had not wanted to bring her. But all that would become apparent in time. Everything does.

  “I am happy to be surrounded with all that a queen could want,” I said loudly, to get their attention. “In this I am rich. I have the best and most loyal ministers in the world, and a son of whom any mother would be proud, any queen wish to succeed her.” Caesarion first beamed, then blushed. “Pray, let us rejoice with one another.” I nodded for the servers to bring around the pitchers of wine and platters of delicacies.

  At the first opportunity, Mardian whispered to me, “Some Parthians have come, asking for an alliance.”

  “Are they official ambassadors, or private citizens?” I asked.

  “Citizens,” said Mardian. “They say they were sent to take a reading, and if the answer is favorable, ambassadors will follow with a formal offer.”

  “Parthia!” I said. “How puzzling! Do you think they have come to spy, because they mean to attack us next?” They were too far away to bother with alliances, I thought, but not too far away to harbor ideas of conquest.

  “No, I think they are on the defensive against the expected Roman attack, and are scratching around for help. Perhaps they see it as black and white: Rome, the west, against the east. Many people do. Are they wrong?”

  “Perhaps not.” Perhaps it was really that simple. Romans, the west, would keep expanding eastward until they dashed themselves against some stone—the Parthians? the Indians? How far would they roll, like ocean breakers, until they finally hit a barrier?

  “Do you want to grant them an audience? Or shall I send them on their way?” he asked.

  I was tempted. In certain moments I had toyed with the idea of an eastern alliance. The Kandake had offered one. It had an allure to it. We could band together with Nubia, with Arabia, with Parthia, Media, perhaps even Hindu Kush, and make a stand against the Romans.

  But in the cold light of reason, it did not hold up. Egypt was too far west herself, cut off from those other lands by a ring of Roman provinces: by Syria, Asia, Pontus, and all the half-digested client kingdoms, like Judaea and Armenia. We were isolated, forced to deal directly with the Romans, make accommodation with them.

  “Send them on their way,” I said. “Hear their proposals first. Ascertain their chances against the Romans. Find out their military situation. Then send them back to Phraaspa or Ecbatana or Susa or whichever city they came from.”

  “Ecbatana, I believe.” He adjusted his left armlet. “This is the wisest course. Keep aloof. Make no alliances. Make no promises.”

  “How easily you seem to have forgotten,” I said. “We are already in an alliance. We are Friend and Ally of the Roman People.”

  He shrugged, as if it were of no moment.

  “I keep my word,” I said. “If it is to be broken, it must be broken by the other side.” It was a point of honor with me—quaint, perhaps foolish, but it was my own personal code. Why, then, did I deride Antony for his loyalty to the Triumvirate?

  Because, I answered myself, you cannot keep faith with a faithless person, and Octavian is faithless. Except to his own ambition.

  When Octavian had first returned to Rome, he had declared his intentions openly: “May I succeed in attaining the honors and position of my father, to which I am entitled.” People laughed, or ignored it. How blind!

  Yes, I would keep my alliance with Rome, but with both eyes open. And it was really an alliance with Caesar and with Antony with which I kept faith.

  “Tell your tale.” Mardian prodded the men forward. He had brought them into my audience hall, where they cowered in a group.

  Hesitantly they inched toward me.

  “Come, come, closer. Do not be afraid,” Mardian urged them.

  “Now, what is it you wish to tell me?” I asked.

  “We—your dockmaster said you would wish to be informed personally,” one man said.

  “About what?”

  “I am—I was—captain of one of the grain transports. We carry a thousand tons of wheat to Rome this time of year. We were attacked just outside Sicily—despoiled of not only our cargo, but our ship as well! I must tell you, such an act of piracy, upon such a huge ship, is unprecedented! Sextus rules the sea. Nothing is safe between here and Rome.”

  “Your ship is gone?”

  “Yes, taken from me. There was nothing I could do to prevent it.”

  “Did you not have soldiers aboard?”

  “Yes, a few, but grain transports cannot provide quarters for many men.” He sighed. “All that investment—my family’s entire estate—gone.”

  “I will repay you,” I assured him. “But give me more information. From what you say, Rome will be starved out.”

  “It looks likely. When Sextus—for I beheld him face-to-face—let me free, he told me that Octavian had sent for help from Antony. ‘But there’s no help against me. I smashed him once and I’ll smash him again, no matter how many ships he gets from Antony. The noose will tighten around his neck until he’ll beg for mercy.’ That’s what he said, Your Majesty. The very words.”

  “He has sent for help to Antony?”

  “So Sextus said. He laughed about it, saying that it would harm both of them. Antony would have to postpone his attack on Parthia, and Octavian would only reveal his weakness, making the Romans more discontented with him.”

  “It is hard to see what Sextus wants—other than to spoil the fortunes of others.” He seemed to have no greater goal or calling. What a sad destiny for the last son of Pompey the Great.

  “We were able to beg transport home on another merchant vessel, in exchange for seamen’s duties,” said another man. “And the captain of this ship told us that Agrippa has taken charge of the war against Sextus, and is engaged in secret preparations. He did not know anything about them, beyond the fact that they involved some vast engineering feat.”

  Agrippa—Octavian’s boyhood friend, now his favorite general. I wondered what “secret” measures he could be invoking against Sextus.

  “Well,” I finally said, “I grieve with you for your losses, and will try to make them good. We are not at war, and there is no reason why you should suffer the pains of war.”

  After they left, I could not keep a small smile off my face. Octavian was floundering; he had been forced to call upon Antony for help.

  It took several months for a
ll the pieces of the mosaic to fall into place. Here I arrange them to form the picture of what happened next. A short sketch will suffice.

  Antony, obedient to the call, set out for Tarentum, whence Octavian had summoned him in a panic. He brought three hundred ships. To his surprise, Octavian did not meet him. It seems the would-be Caesar had had second thoughts, echoing the first ones of Sextus: namely, that to call for outside help revealed his own weakness. He preferred to bank on Agrippa and his secret plans; he did not wish to share any glory with Antony.

  Antony, furious with Octavian, was ready to break with him at last, but in the end Octavia acted as a mediator between them. She wept and cajoled, saying she would be the most miserable of women, should there be a falling-out between the two people dearest to her: her brother and her husband. The two men met reluctantly, and yet another treaty was forged: the Treaty of Tarentum. It renewed the Triumvirate—which had technically expired—for another five years. Antony was to yield two squadrons—one hundred twenty ships—for the war against Sextus. At some vague later date, Octavian would repay him with twenty thousand men for the war against the Parthians. Antony sailed away, leaving the ships behind, but with no promised soldiers. The rendezvous with Octavian had eaten up the better part of the summer, costing him another year’s setback in launching the Parthian attack. Thus this treaty, like all the others with Octavian, lessened Antony’s power. He took his leave, fuming.

  It was very late. I was reading well past my usual time to sleep. I lay on my couch, a bolster under my head, my feet covered with a light blanket. The lamps guttered in the breeze coming through the window, beginning to gather force for the coming autumn. It was a night for ghosts, a night when the sea below seemed to moan and whisper.

  At first I was not sure I heard a knock. It was too late for a knock. But it sounded again. I rose and said, “Enter.”

  Mardian stepped in, his bulk draped in a shawl. “Forgive me,” he said. “But I thought you would want to hear this news immediately. Antony has sent Octavia back to Rome. On his voyage back east, he got as far as the island of Corcyra, when he suddenly said she belonged back in Rome. And he sent her packing on the next ship.”