The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  “Just this. We can resume a life together”—his face lightened—“under these conditions. You will marry me. Publicly. You will divorce Octavia. You will recognize our children as legitimate. You will award certain territories to me, to Egypt.”

  “And what, pray tell, might those be?” His voice was cold.

  “My lost ancestral territory of Phoenicia, Judaea, parts of Syria—and Cyprus, which the assassins appropriated and has not yet been returned as you promised.”

  I expected him to laugh and say no. Instead he thought for a moment and said, “Judaea I cannot grant. Herod is my friend, going back even before you. He is a valuable and loyal ally; I would not turn him into an enemy.”

  “Would you rather have me as an enemy?”

  “You could never be my enemy.”

  “If you do not grant me these things, I swear I will be. Egypt will cause you trouble if you attempt a war in the east, unless—”

  Now he did laugh. He crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Don’t you know I could swat you like a fly if I wanted to? All I have to do is raise my arm and you are dethroned, and Egypt becomes a Roman province the next day. I have twenty-four legions—how many do you have?”

  “Enough to delay your start for Parthia. And a respectable navy—two hundred ships.” But of course what he said was true. I glared back at him.

  “Ships cannot come out on land. And I don’t need the sea to transport my troops. They are already here, at your doorstep. They can starve out your navy.”

  “It would be an expensive undertaking for you.”

  “I would be amply repaid by capturing the fabled treasury of Egypt. In fact, it would be a worthwhile venture in any case. Any strategist would recommend it at this point.”

  “Try, and you will find it harder than you think. And it would certainly delay your Parthian campaign by a year, if not longer.”

  He laughed. “I admire your courage, especially when you know you are outflanked. Come, come. I only said it to show you that what I do, I do willingly.”

  This sudden turn took me by surprise.

  “Yes,” he continued. “You will find that I have already acceded to your demands, had thought of them even before you. I will prove it.”

  He went over to a corner of the chamber and picked up a stout lock-box, circled with iron bands. Unlocking it, he took out another box, this one decorated with delicate designs of ivory. He handed it to me. “Open it.”

  I raised the lid and saw inside an explosion of gold. It was an elaborate necklace of fine gold leaves, twined to look like a vine, covered with emerald flowers. There was also a matching diadem. It was one of the most exquisite pieces of jewelry I had ever seen, and it must have cost him a year’s tribute from a wealthy city.

  “It is beautiful.” I drew it out; it was heavy, but the edges of the leaves were so polished that, although they were thin, they would not catch on silk or skin. “But what has that to do with—”

  “I brought it as a wedding gift.”

  Why was a necklace proof of that?

  “I meant it to go with this.” He pulled out another box, a much smaller one, and handed it to me as well.

  Inside was a gold ring with his signet and ancestor, Hercules. It was a very small ring.

  “I had it made to fit you. As a wedding ring.” And indeed, it was not just a ring of his he was pressing into service. It was shiny, new, and too small for a man. “Now you’ve spoiled my proposal,” he said, only half-jokingly.

  “You wished to marry me?”

  “Yes. Why would you find that so unbelievable?”

  “Because when you were free, you did not. Now, when you are married—”

  “Ah. Perhaps that helped in the decision!” He was laughing.

  “Don’t joke!”

  His smile faded. “I do not mean to make light of it. The gods know it was no easy decision. But I came here, the decision already made. If you would accept me.”

  How odd this was. I had never expected this. “Yes. Yes, I accept.”

  He took the necklace and fastened it around my neck. “Then wear this.” The cool, slippery weight of the metal settled like a collar around me. He bent and kissed my throat just above the top of the necklace. His hands took mine and started to put the ring on as well.

  “No,” I said. “Not yet. It is bad luck. Not before—”

  He put his arms around me, running them up and down my back. I shivered, caught my breath—then put my hands on his chest and pushed myself away.

  “No,” I said. “We do not resume this part of our lives together until after we are married.” It was one of the hardest things I have ever brought myself to do. I turned away and put a distance between us. My heart was beating so fast I could almost feel it thumping, even as high up as the necklace.

  He stared as if I were crazy. It was true, he was spoiled. No one ever said no to him. But tonight I would.

  “Let it be soon, then,” he muttered.

  “As soon as you can arrange it,” I said. “And before the ceremony, you will have the papers ready, granting me the territories we discussed. And the divorce request for Octavia.”

  “No.” He balked. “I cannot serve her with papers of divorce while she is carrying my child. It is—unkind. And insulting.”

  Antony. Always tenderhearted and noble. But he was right. And it would be unlike him to be deliberately cruel to anyone.

  “Very well,” I said. “But soon afterward, you must.”

  “What sort of ceremony do you wish?”

  “Not Roman,” I said. He had been married in too many Roman ceremonies, and none of them seemed to take. Besides, it would not be legal there in any case.

  “We could go to the shrine of Apollo near here,” he said. “It is reputed to be very beautiful, and it is ancient. I know you have a fondness for ancient things—”

  “No, not Apollo! How can you have forgotten? Apollo is Octavian’s patron god!”

  “Oh yes. Well, what about—”

  “I know. The Temple of Isis. There is bound to be one here. And it is fitting, since she is my goddess, and your god is Dionysus. We will make an offering there, take vows before the priest, but have our festivities within the palace. I wish all your Roman officers to help us celebrate. All of them.” I wanted hundreds of witnesses.

  “Yes, of course.” He threw up his hands. “You don’t seem to understand,” he said. “I wish all the world to see! When I came here, I shook the dust of Rome from my boots. I leave all that behind, and am not ashamed to stand up before the world itself with you.”

  I knew that this extraordinary man meant it—once again he was doing what he pleased, without thinking. But this time it pleased me that he did so.

  “Yes,” I said. Now let him make it good; let him prove it. “Let us hold the ceremony tomorrow. And now I leave you. We have much to arrange in the next few hours.”

  He did not flinch. “You will find it all done, and done well.”

  Back in my own, unfamiliar apartments, I wandered in like a ghost. I was stunned. Although I had rehearsed my “demands,” I had not expected this to happen so fast. Tomorrow! To marry a man tomorrow whom I had not seen in four years! It was crazy, as crazy as something the god Dionysus would indulge in. I felt I must be drunk to do it.

  Iras leapt up, surprised to see me return so early. Her eyes fastened on the necklace, and she stared.

  I touched it lightly. “Do you like it?” I said. Indeed, I did feel drunk. None of this was real. “It is my wedding present. Yes, I am to marry. Tomorrow.”

  She just sputtered, unable to find words.

  “You and Charmian will have to make me ready. I hope the ceremonial gown I brought will be suitable.” I had had a special one made, but even to myself I had not used the words wedding gown. “You had best get it out and air it. Call Charmian.”

  Iras rushed off to do so. I looked dreamily around the chamber.

  Married. I was to be married—in public. In
only a few hours.

  “Madam, what is this?” Charmian came running in. “Married?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow.” I did not have to identify the man. “Well, isn’t it about time?” I laughed. “After all, our children are three years old!”

  “But—”

  “Charmian, Iras, your task is to make me beautiful tomorrow. Nothing else.”

  “That we can do,” said Charmian. “But I must ask—you must ask yourself—and answer before tomorrow—I know you wish to marry Antony, but do you wish to wed Rome as well? Will you yield Egypt up like this?”

  “It is a fair question,” I said. “But by doing this, I hope to preserve Egypt.”

  I lay in the darkness, the hours passing in this strange city, under this strange sky. Nothing was as I had pictured it, adding to the unreality. Thus, whatever happened tomorrow would be fitting.

  Charmian’s question…how to answer it to myself? Because my position was unique, I could not expect to be like any other bride. But I felt I was marrying a man, not marrying Rome. He, like Caesar, was an unusual son of Rome, one who seemed to understand that there were other peoples in the world, and was willing to share the stage with them—or at least grant them some dignity and liberty under the Roman eagle.

  The wedding would take place in the late afternoon. Basins of water from the famous springs of Antioch were brought in to fill a tub for me to bathe in. I declined to add any perfume or oil to them, since they had been tasted by Alexander on his way to Egypt, and he had pronounced them like his mother’s milk. If anything, milk should have been added. Charmian and Iras washed me, one rubbing each arm, and washed my hair. Afterwards they combed it out, drying it before a brazier, brushing it smooth until it gleamed. Then they took a pair of shears and cut a lock of it to be dedicated to Isis before the ceremony.

  My gown, a Grecian-style one of pale blue silk, hung airing in the breeze before the open window. On a separate cord hung my veil of matching silk. I would wear it covering my face, in accordance with Greek custom.

  Each of them tended to my hands, rubbing them with almond oil, buffing the nails with ground pearls.

  I was oddly calm. I knew it was a momentous step, and because it was of such great consequence, I could not dwell on it. I must go forward, trusting my own leading, committing myself to fate. It did not feel unkindly.

  The procession to the Temple of Isis, and the ceremony itself, would be witnessed by only a dozen people. Antony would take me in a carriage, with his chief officer, Canidius Crassus, on my other side. Others would follow, including Iras and Charmian and more staff officers.

  He came to my chamber early, looking solemn. But whatever his thoughts, he stood there manfully and extended his hand to take mine. Silently we descended to the waiting carriage. Through the gauze of the veil I could see the other man waiting, a man with a long, thin face. He nodded to me and slid far to one side to give us room. Still no one spoke, as the horses clattered along the street. I peered out as best I could. The buildings were handsome ones, the streets swept and clean. There were no crowds, as none of this was expected or announced.

  As we swung down another street, I glimpsed the famous statue of Tyche, Antioch’s goddess of fortune, staring enigmatically at us, clutching her sheath of wheat. We rattled past her.

  At the Temple of Isis the priest was waiting, holding the pail of sacred water. He wore the customary white linen robe, and his head was shaved. Behind him rose a beautiful statue of Isis, carved in the whitest marble I had ever seen. My lock of hair lay at her feet, a dark, shining offering.

  Antony and I stood before him, the others from the following carriages grouped around us. He prayed to Isis, she who had instituted marriage, asking her to unite us, bless us, preserve us. He asked us if we came willingly to this marriage, and we each said yes—Antony loudly, I much quieter. I found it hard to speak. He asked us to vow fidelity to one another, to live as man and wife, to care for each other the rest of our lives—not fleeing before adversity, he said, or relying on prosperity, but standing side by side in all conditions until death, faced together.

  A ring was not necessary, but Antony produced it and put it on my finger, announcing that in so doing he took me as his true wife.

  The statue of Isis was anointed with sacred water, more prayers were said, the hair dedicated, incense lit. Hymns were intoned in the priest’s high, singsong voice.

  It was over. We were married. Antony took the corner of my veil and tried to lift it. “May I see my wife’s face?” he asked.

  But I stopped him. “No. Not until much later.” That, too, was the Greek custom.

  We returned to the carriages, but the way back was much slower. As twilight fell, a torchlight procession walked ahead of us, singing wedding hymns. In the carriage, a still-silent Antony took my hand—the one with the ring—and held it. The gold necklace lay heavy on my neck.

  In the palace, the wedding feast awaited—heaps of food, hastily prepared but nonetheless succulent. There were roasted boar, smoked bass, oysters, eels, and lobsters, salt fish from Byzantium, Jericho dates, melons, mounds of cake dripping with Hymettan honey, and more of the famous Laodicean wine.

  I met the officers who were to play such an important part in the coming campaign: Marcus Titius, dark, lean, almost satyrlike; Ahenobarbus, balding but with a bushy beard, sharp eyes, and (I had been told) an even sharper tongue. He held it tonight, offering only his congratulations. There was also Munatius Plancus, a broad-beamed man with a thatch of straight, light hair, and again, Canidius Crassus. He had not only a long face but a long body as well, and was exceptionally tall, towering over others. He had a mournful look on his face, but later Antony told me he always looked like that. Certainly he seemed polite enough to me; I did not detect any hostility in his manner.

  Last there was Ventidius Bassus, the general who had driven the Parthians back across the Euphrates, and, as Antony put it, “made it possible for us to be here in Antioch tonight.”

  Bassus bowed stiffly. Older than the others, he was actually of Caesar’s generation.

  “Bassus is departing for Rome for a well-earned Triumph,” said Antony proudly. “And you will be sure to tell everyone in Rome about today’s ceremony, will you not?”

  Bassus looked surprised. “Why, yes, if you…want me to, Lord Antony.” Obviously he had imagined Antony wanted it kept quiet, not announced in Rome.

  “Yes. Yes, indeed I do. In fact, make sure you don’t forget.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Here, here, is my wedding gift!” Antony cried loudly. He unrolled a scroll and read off to all the company, “To Queen Cleopatra, I hereby give the following lands: Cyprus, west Cilicia, the coasts and seaports of Phoenicia and Judaea—excepting only Tyre and Sidon—central Syria, Arabia, and the groves of balsam in Jericho and the bitumen rights to the Dead Sea.”

  Now all conversation ceased, and I could sense the shock and anger in the room. Antony rolled the scroll up and placed it in my hands, then folded them over it. “It is yours. All is yours.”

  I realized that he had given me not only Roman territory but other rights that were technically not his, such as the ones in Jericho and the Dead Sea, and Arabia. He had gone beyond even what I had asked.

  “I thank you,” I said, and now at last I felt hostility around me.

  It was time to depart for our chamber. We were conducted there by a large company, then escorted inside. The doors were closed, but just outside them the last part of the ceremony must be enacted. A chorus sang the bridal song, and we stood and listened.

  Happy groom, the wedding took place

  and the woman you prayed for is yours.

  Now her charming face is warm with love.

  My bride, your body is a joy,

  Your eyes as soft as honey,

  And love pours its light

  on your perfect features.

  Using all her skill, Aphrodite

  honored you.

  No woman who ever was,


  O groom, was like her.

  The voices faded away, and I could hear the footsteps departing. We were truly alone.

  Now Antony lifted off the veil, freeing my face.

  “Yes, it is true,” he said, “No woman who ever was, is like you.” He finally kissed me, and I let him.

  Later, standing before the bed, I spoke. “I am scarred. I am not what I was.” The birth of the twins had left its mark on me. He would find me changed.

  He took my face in his wide hands. “You earned them for me, and they are precious to me.”

  I thought I would have forgotten his body, but I had not. The body has a memory of its own and mine remembered his, every aspect of it.

  How had I passed those four years without it?

  Time and again all night, in between our times together, I would get up and look out at the dark plain stretching beyond the palace, at the starry sky, its constellations moved ever so slightly from Alexandria. That night sky of Antioch, as it holds itself in late autumn, will always be a consecrated memory for me. I cannot separate it from the joy of my reunion with Antony, and of our daring to do what we did.

  55

  For the first few days I found myself walking about in a peculiar state of mind, bringing myself up short and saying in disbelief, I am married. It was hard to fathom the subtle change it entailed. I was almost thirty-three, and had been alone—fiercely alone—all my life. Living with Caesar in Alexandria with the palace under fire, living with Antony when he came on holiday, was not the same. And altogether those had only added up to a year—one year out of thirty-three. I had borne children and raised them alone, had governed alone, using Mardian and Epaphroditus for advice and guidance only, but having no conflict between their wishes and mine.

  Now I had a partner, politically and personally, and it felt as odd and cumbersome as the gold wedding necklace on my neck. It was beautiful, it was valuable, it was enviable—but it felt unnatural.