The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  “Are you recovered?” I said in a low voice.

  “Yes. It just took time. Time, silence, solitude.”

  Well I knew what he meant. But silence and solitude were normally things he shunned. He must have been greatly changed by Actium.

  “Thanks be to the gods.” I leaned over and kissed his cheek—again, hesitantly. He could feel it, I knew. But I could not help my wariness.

  He tightened his hand on mine. “May I return?”

  “Your quarters have long been waiting.” I did not see fit to mention the sarcophagus, also waiting. “The children will welcome you warmly.”

  “And you? Do you welcome me?”

  “What an odd choice of words—much too pale. I have been—bereft without you.” I paused. “I was missing the spirit of my life,” I finally said. It was impossible to put into words. Without him, vitality had fled. I leaned over and kissed him, allowing myself to feel it at last.

  “There is no point in dying before one’s time,” he said. “And that is what I have done. Now I lament the lost months!”

  “You could not help it.” When we are felled, we are felled. But if we rise to our feet in a little while, we can count ourselves lucky.

  “May we go inside?” he asked politely. “I would like to return before the palace starts bustling.”

  I stood up, drawing him with me. “Of course.”

  Together we climbed the steps to the still-sleeping palace. The corridors were empty, the wall torches still sputtered in their sockets, doors stood shut.

  Antony stole into his quarters and then looked at them in surprise. “Like an old friend, they look different to me now,” he said. He had not been here since Actium.

  I drew back the curtains to his inner room, revealing the couches, the table, the bed where I had passed long, yearning hours thinking of him—hours that I would never tell him about. “I think you will find it all in order,” I said crisply, as if I had not seen it, either.

  He walked around wonderstruck, touching this surface and that. Finally he turned to me and said, “O my heart!” and held out his arms.

  I flung myself into them, treasuring their embrace. All my mourning, all my acceptance, must now be flung to the winds, unneeded. He had come back, and come back as he had once been.

  “My lost friend,” I whispered.

  “Why ‘friend’? Are we not still husband and wife?” He shook his head. “Or have you divorced me?” From the plaintive tone, I realized he feared it had happened. He kissed me fervently as if to convince me to stay with him.

  I tried to assure him. “I’m not a Roman,” I said. “I don’t divorce with every whim or change in fortune. It’s just that…I feared I was a widow, not a wife.”

  He gave a shuddering sigh of relief. “You are still—we are still—”

  “But you must give me time—” My words were muffled by an onslaught of frenzied kissing. He was like a starving man, and I could hardly fend him off. The celibate life in his hermitage had not agreed with his nature, that was evident.

  “Antony, please stop!” I was insistent. What I meant—but could not say—was that I was almost afraid for him to touch me, as if I did not want to open all those feelings again. For I had conquered them, and if this was just a brief interlude, then…I could not bear to go through it all again.

  He let go of me. “Forgive me,” he said. “I seem to have forgotten my manners; living alone has that effect.” He was trying to make light of it, but I could tell that he was hurt.

  He could not expect me to adjust instantly to every whirl in his behavior—first the withdrawal, then the two unannounced returns, next…another disappearance? It was too painful; I must protect myself in some way, at least at this moment.

  “It’s not a matter of forgiving you,” I finally said. I must choose my words carefully. He would be vulnerable to misinterpreting them. “There is nothing to forgive. I was so grieved when you were gone from me; I was so afraid that you would never return. All I prayed for was that one day you would be standing here again, in your rooms, with me. But…in some ways you seem more like a stranger to me now than you did at Tarsus! What I have gone through in these last few months, what you have gone through…it separates us. We will have to hear one another’s stories, learn what has happened to each other….”

  “Don’t you want me back?” he cried.

  Was he going to rush off again? Zeus forbid! “Yes! Yes!” I assured him. I could sense that he was confused about where he belonged. But surely he had not expected to walk back into the world he had fled from? It had changed mightily in those months; while he had brooded, Egypt and I had been busy dealing with Octavian and the aftermath of Actium.

  But now was a quiet time, a good time for his return. And for our reunion.

  “Yes, yes,” I repeated. “I want you back more than anything in the world.” And it was true.

  My mother had been taken from me, and never returned. Caesar, too. It is not often that the dead come back to us, and I rejoiced. I must never let him know that I had counted him so completely among the lost.

  80

  As in a dream, when we revisit places we thought never to see again, Antony and I sat high on silvered chairs of state, the waves of people spread out as far as we could see on all sides, until they merged into the very sea itself. Overhead the sky was a deep, ringing blue, and the stately buildings of Alexandria as white as the clouds floating benevolently over them.

  I am five, watching the state procession of my father, the Dionysus-cart creaking along past the Library…I am eighteen, celebrating my own accession, riding through the white streets, crowds lining it, wild, curious eyes staring…I am twenty-five, following the bier bearing Ptolemy with the high, wailing cries of mourners…I am thirty-five, watching Antony parade through the streets with his mock Triumph, Armenian prisoners walking behind, and again, another celebration, Alexandria festooned and scrubbed, when Antony decorated me and our heirs with all the realms of the east.

  Alexandria, handmaiden of all this, now stands by once more to watch and applaud as we enact the last ritual, the coming-of-age of both Caesarion and Antyllus. Caesarion is to be enrolled in the Greek Ephebic College for military and civic training, and proclaimed a man, while Antyllus is to assume the toga virilis, the mark of a Roman adult.

  No expense was spared. After all, what was the one thing we still had in abundance? Hope might have fled, soldiers might have deserted, ships might have burnt, but money, courage, and defiance—those we still had. Antony and I had agonized over whether it was wise to elevate the boys to adulthood. Which would assure their survival best? Antony felt that Octavian was more likely to spare minors, but I pointed out that it was too late for that. We had taken up arms in the name of Caesarion’s rights, and Octavian would never overlook that. As for Antyllus, the notorious will had named him Antony’s personal heir, and now he would suffer all the punishments for it. At least as adults they would command the respect and attention they were due, rather than “disappearing” as children often did.

  “They will have to be formally charged and dealt with,” I said. “There must be a record of the doings. But Caesarion will be safe and out of Egypt, and Antyllus will have committed no crime beyond being your heir. And since Octavian actually knows Antyllus, he will most likely spare him. Proclaiming them adults offers them the best chance, and also offers partisans the opportunity to champion them.” It all sounded very sensible, but it could so easily go the other way. Were we dooming them instead of saving them?

  “Perhaps it will be Alexander who is made King,” Antony said. “That would get around all the difficulties of the older boys.”

  I laughed. His optimism was touching. “Do you honestly think Octavian would place your son on the throne of Egypt? Reward you, in effect? You must be dreaming. He is not known for his bigheartedness.” I shook my head. “If my children were pure Ptolemies, it might be different. As it is, it is their Roman blood that causes the troubl
e.”

  Antony nodded. “And to think they are all cousins—and cousins to Octavian.”

  “That is what makes them dangerous to one another,” I said.

  So we had arranged the ceremonies, the day when Caesarion would ride in his chariot through the streets of the city, wearing his royal robes, clutching the scroll and medals admitting him to the Ephebic College, and then present himself to me for a public declaration. Antyllus, though only fourteen, qualified for elevation into adulthood as well.

  I was proud to show myself to the city and put an end to wild rumors about my health, my appearance, my state of mind. And I was grateful for Antony to have the chance to do likewise.

  He seemed to have recovered from the nadir of Actium and the humiliation by Gallus and the trumpets. It told me that perhaps the cruelest thing about a very high, visible position was that one could never withdraw to let nature perform her healing, but must remain chained and hoisted up to public view. If only Caesar, after Spain, had had the luxury of those months of Antony’s! He, too, might have regained his balance and peace of mind. But enough of that, I told myself sternly.

  Now Antony and I sat side by side, wearing our best ceremonial attire, watching our eldest children—by other mates—come into their own. The children we had made together were seated behind us. I wondered what future awaited them. Perhaps Antony was right, and they would win out in the end. They would have the magic of our names but not the stink of our opprobrium, and their very youth and innocence could preserve them. I had thought of sending Alexander and Selene to Media, where Alexander’s betrothed waited. But I did not know. I just did not know….

  A blare of trumpets told us that the procession was drawing near. We sat up straighter and prepared to welcome our sons to the platform. Around the side of the Gymnasion the glittering chariots wheeled, and a burst of cheers exploded on the air.

  How tall they stood! How proud, how impervious to any blows! Flowers flew through the air, pelting them with approval and admiration.

  Remember it always, my son, I prayed silently. Hear those cries, see the faces, taste the joy of total acceptance, most intoxicating of wine. It does not stay.

  The chariots approached, and at the foot of the platform they drew up abreast, then stopped. The boys—men now—stepped out and mounted the platform where we awaited them, as proud parents as any farmer or fisherman whose son first takes the plow or the net.

  Caesarion stood beside me, taller than I, infinitely lovely and promising, at the very brink and threshold of his own life apart from mine. What he would be, he himself must now unfold.

  I took his hand and held it high, aloft. I felt the weight of my crown and headdress, bearing down upon me. Before me the multitude spread out.

  “My people,” I said, and my voice, trained as well as Antony’s, rang out. “Today you have a man, a King in Egypt, to lead you. Hearken to him!”

  Then I turned to look at Caesarion, my firstborn, my pride, seeing on his face all the high solemnity and mystery of this day. My own life fell away like the lighthouse the children had made, and it seemed but so much sand. Here was my achievement, here was my legacy. And Caesar’s.

  Afterward we retired to the palace for a banquet. Always there must be a banquet, although I do not know why. I suppose our mortal natures need to feast and raise cups in jubilation.

  Now we were seated at a long table—no Roman reclining today—and Caesarion took the place of honor, while Antony and I flanked him, Antyllus beside Antony.

  Caesarion was still wearing his celebratory crown, his fine features flattered by it. What a king he would make. I was not being sentimental, but my eyes were keen discerners of what really was. Somehow, in the dim hours between dusk and dawn in the palace as it then was, Caesar and I had created a rare creature, and all by accident, all unknowing. Such is fate.

  My voice would tremble; I could not trust it. And so I silently raised my cup and drank to him, to my jewel, my achievement.

  “My boys, you acquitted yourselves well today,” said Antony loudly. “Mark you, I do not expect to lose games to you anytime soon, regardless of your new status.”

  I was drinking from an agate cup, one that had been in our family for generations. I let my lips linger over its rim, which seemed to impart a very smoothness to the wine. Still I could not trust myself to speak, but I hoped that would soon pass. I did not like being mute.

  The feast continued. I could report every dish, every comment. But time is becoming a very short commodity with me now. I still have gold, but time…no time. Octavian has snatched that from me. And so I must leave the dinner, which was set such a short time ago. A short time…a lifetime.

  The sea was calm, that peculiar Alexandrian blue-green, the one hue not captured in any gem; turquoise is too opaque, aquamarine too pallid, lapis too thick and stubbornly dark. But the reply did not come by sea. As befitted its message, the letter from Octavian slithered in unobtrusively by land. I received it, delivered by a regular messenger: a high insult.

  To the Queen Cleopatra, intransigent enemy of Rome:

  Salutations. I have received your tokens of submission, and am gratified thereby. As to your requests, I cannot answer at present. Too much stands between us. How can I consider the deposition of the crown when you have shown me no goodwill? I need assurance that you are a thinking being—which you always were before your alliance with the unfortunate Marcus Antonius—and are stable and dependable. Therefore I require some reasonable proof. What should serve? The head of said Antonius, or else to drive him from your domains into our hands. He is a spent force, and an impediment between heads of state such as ourselves.

  Do it, and you shall find us most reasonable. But first, do it. Otherwise we shall determine that you are not trustworthy.

  Imperator G. Caesar

  I kept rereading it. His boldness was head-spinning. So I was to sacrifice Antony…and for what? He had not specified. “You shall find us most reasonable.” It meant nothing. And he was astute enough never to commit anything to paper that could come back to haunt him or nip at his heels.

  I noted that he had not returned the crown and scepter. He was probably stroking them this very minute, cooing to them! And the “we”! He was royal already, I noted.

  Antony’s head. Did he think I would station a servant behind the curtains, drawing his breath slowly, ready to strike after we had finished making love, ending Antony’s life as he drowsed off? Did he think I would kiss him, caress his hair, welcome him, planning his murder immediately thereafter?

  Oh, Octavian, I thought, you have believed all the evil you have put abroad about me! The evil Queen, slave to her ambition: Cleopatra! Cleopatra, most vile!

  When Antony came into my room that night, I could not help thinking: that head. To strike off that head…what an ugly, squalid offer Octavian had made, treating that noble head like meat in a market stall. Had all the glory melted down to such vulgarity?

  The end was here, and nothing remained to us but to meet it with honor. How does one throw open the doors to the enemy, with honor? I did not know. It was not written. I must discover it.

  That dear head, more precious than all kingdoms; that head which had given me freedom and bliss—I would fight to my last breath to preserve it. Octavian was dead wrong in his supposition. Perhaps he was equally wrong in his other suppositions. I could only pray so.

  The days crept by, each one perfect and bracing. Every morning was a shining bead of dew, clear and pure and untroubled; the white noons were filled with purpose and motion; the evenings, with dark, wine-colored clouds playing in the fading sky, as the stars behind them came out, as always. As always…it went on as always, and only by the sheerest act of imagination could we force ourselves to believe a threat hovered somewhere just over the horizon, beyond our sight.

  The end was supposed to be accompanied by the flash and smoke of battle, or the rattling cough of old age, or even the spots of plague. It was not supposed to come int
o a perfect world, a world so beguiling, so sweet, so quiet. Perhaps this was the final enemy to be confronted: this false sense of safety.

  I could delay no longer. It was already late May. Caesarion would have to leave. We had heard that Octavian had now transferred his legions from Asia into Syria. He had gone to Antioch, sitting himself down in our palace, that drafty relic which had served our hours of joy so well. Then he had passed on, going south. He was less than five hundred miles from our eastern border fortress, while Gallus was sitting less than two hundred miles to our west, having already captured our stronghold there. They would close in on us; although the southern desert would remain open, Caesarion had to reach Coptos by mid-June. He must go.

  But, O! the world of woe in those three words! I had to cast him adrift at the mercy of fate for the rest of his life. I knew that when he sailed away, I would never see him again.

  I would go with him until he reached the main channel of the Nile, and then I must turn back. And so we set out, in a small boat from the steps of the lake harbor, and retraced the journey I had made so many years ago with Mardian, Olympos, and Nebamun, when we ran away from the palace. Now my son was also running away from the palace.

  The tall lake reeds had grown thicker than ever, and the boatmen had to work hard to push them aside. They showered us with golden pollen and stirred up pairs of white dancing butterflies to circle our heads. Then we were entering the canal that would bring us to the Canopic branch of the Nile, and from thence into the Nile proper. I almost hated the smoothness of our progress. I had seen to it that the canal was dredged and the weeds cut back, so it was faster going these days.

  Once we reached the Canopic branch, we hoisted our sail to catch the north breeze, and made steady progress, past the green fields, the towering palms, the donkeys and their waterwheels.