The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  He fell to his knees, only a few feet from me. “Oh, madam!” he said, using one hand to shield his eyes, as if the sight were too much for a mortal. But the gesture was too smooth; it had been rehearsed.

  “Rise,” I said. I held out my scepter to indicate my wish.

  “My knees will not obey,” he said. “They are made weak by your splendor.”

  “Order them,” I said. The flattery was too thick.

  He forced himself up, never taking his eyes from mine. “Whatever you order, I shall do my best to obey.”

  “You are Octavian’s aide? What is the rest of your name—Thyrsus?”

  “Julius Caesar Thyrsus,” he replied, proudly.

  “You are a freedman?” I was incredulous. He had sent a freedman to address me? So this was his answer to my tutor! He was determined to find someone lower on the social scale. Next he would send a slave.

  “Yes, madam. I was freed by the generosity of my former master, now my patron, Imperator Caesar, divi filius.”

  “You mean Octavian.” Let the contest begin.

  “As you wish, madam.” He smiled, a hesitant, winning smile. His eyes were very blue.

  “Your master would not be pleased to hear you capitulate on his titles so easily,” I said.

  Again the man smiled. “My master is not here, lady, and you are. I wish to please you, and say nothing that would roil your spirits. If ‘Octavian’ sounds sweet to your ears, so be it.”

  How accommodating of him. I wondered what his true instructions were. Was this all done in accordance with Octavian’s plan? “What would sound sweetest to my ears would be to hear that Octavian had departed for Rome, to let me and my kingdom continue in peace. But such words I will never hear. Where is he now?”

  “In Ashkelon.”

  Ashkelon! My city, so precious to me at crucial times of my life. He sat there now. The thought was painful.

  “He is making the final preparations for the march down the desert highway through the Sinai.” His tone was kind, not haughty.

  “And then to assault Pelusium,” I said. Pelusium was the key to Egypt, its eastern gateway. If it fell, the road to Alexandria was clear.

  “That is the plan, madam. I tell you nothing you do not know.”

  “This time of year the desert road shimmers with unbearable heat, and you must march two days without water,” I warned him. “Between Rhinokolura and Pelusium there are no wells.”

  “We have camels.”

  “You cannot drink from their humps.”

  “They can carry many waterskins.”

  “Not enough for twenty legions.”

  “Each soldier also carries water.”

  “Enough of this sparring,” I said. “I say it will be difficult, and you say you know that. Let it rest. No battle is without its challenges. That is why it would be best if we could avoid battle altogether, which both Antony and I have proposed. I await Octavian’s reply to our offers, which I assume you carry with you.” I found his manner so likable that I could take no offense at his half-playful arguing.

  “Yes, I do.” He gave a short, musical laugh. “But they are not written down. I am to speak them.”

  “Well?”

  “As for Antony’s request—surely it was a jest?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “Single combat? My commander dismissed it, saying only that if Antony wished to die, there were many methods he could choose.”

  I winced inwardly. What other answer could Octavian give? It both shamed and insulted Antony for his foolish offer. “I see,” I said. The less said about it, the better. “And mine?”

  “Ah. Yours. That you will yield Egypt to him without a fight if he promises to put your children on the throne to succeed you, and not make Egypt a Roman province. Now that…has many considerations.”

  “I should have reminded him that once before, Rome captured Egypt, when his…adopted…father Caesar fought the Alexandrian War. But he wisely did not annex it to Rome then. Caesar judged it better to leave Egypt as it was. Can his political heir be less wise than Caesar the god?” I was anxious to know Octavian’s mind; why did this fellow not speak it out?

  “Caesar did not take Egypt because he was a captive himself—captive to your charm. It was in deference to you that he held back.” He paused, as if he were debating whether to speak further. “And his glorious successor, the young general Octavian, is not as proof against them as he appears.”

  I had not expected this. What a clever trap. But…long ago Antony had muttered, I know he has a lust for you. “Is it so?” I replied cautiously.

  “Yes, although I hesitate to reveal it,” he said. He seemed so sincere. “He is most eager to have the opportunity to prove himself your friend.”

  Now I had to laugh. My friend! “Is that why he has declared war on me and called me a whore?”

  “Sometimes the stronger our feelings, the crueler our words, to mask them,” he said gallantly.

  “Oh, I am sure his feelings toward me are quite strong. But strong in hatred, not in friendship.”

  “You are wrong. But give him the opportunity to prove his good intentions. Lay down your arms and welcome him to Egypt, as you did Caesar. Then he will prove a kind lord to you and yours.”

  “Is this before or after I present him with Antony?”

  “Forget about Antony,” he said. “He is negligible, inconsequential between great rulers of your stature.”

  “I see.” And I did, to my sorrow. But Octavian’s desire to lull me into submission might be turned against him, if I could somehow manage an interview while I still held my treasure safe. “Now let me reiterate my situation. I know that what Octavian desires is not me, but my treasure. He needs it to pay his soldiers, who have been living on promises for years. But he will never get it until he has met my conditions. Otherwise I will destroy it. Let me show you how.” I rose from the throne and came down to stand beside him. “Come with me.”

  “If you would only welcome him as you did Caesar, you would find him most agreeable.”

  Why did he keep using that phrase? Did he mean welcome him into my bed?

  “If he would be straightforward in his dealings, as Caesar was, we could come to an understanding,” I answered.

  “You are young,” Thyrsus said, sighing. “Is it not time you left old men behind? Youth has charms that age knows not.”

  “Then Octavian would not find me charming, as I am older than he.”

  He pretended to be surprised. “Is it even so? But you look so young.”

  “It must be the magic arts that Octavian swears I practice that have preserved me,” I said. “But he himself seems a child to me.”

  “Oh no, my lady, he is now thirty-two. The same age as Alexander when he died. Was Alexander a child?”

  “A glorious and eternal god-child,” I said. “Come.” I would lead him to the mausoleum and show him my ransom.

  We passed through the connecting rooms of the palace, and the bright sunlight hurt my eyes when we stepped outside. The summer sun, magnified by the white marble of the city and the flat mirror of the sea, was so intense it bleached colors from whatever it touched.

  “Where are we going?” he asked, shading his eyes.

  “To a place where the sun never penetrates,” I said, pointing across the grounds to the mausoleum, next to the open Temple of Isis. “To my tomb.”

  “So, even though you are Greek, you have succumbed to the Egyptian fascination with death?” He asked it curiously. “Even in this city of high noon, the shadow of the tomb falls across our path.”

  We were approaching the building. It loomed bigger and bigger before us, its portals beckoning. “To grow up in Egypt is to rub shoulders with the dead. It is inescapable; the monuments are part of the landscape. We do not believe that a body should burn like a candle and then be emptied unceremoniously into an urn.” I paused. “But all this is not for many years,” I assured him, “if Octavian will listen to reason. After all, why should any of us die prema
turely?”

  Let us live, I wished fiercely. Let us spend as many years as natural life allows us, here beneath the sun. It might be possible. If…

  I led the way up the steps surrounding the mausoleum and through the open doors. Beside me, his heavy nailed sandals grated on the stone.

  Inside, the shadows engulfed us. It took a moment for our eyes to adjust.

  “This is all for you? And Antony?” he asked, His voice hushed.

  “Yes. We will lie apart from the rest of the Ptolemies.” I was waiting for the stinging darkness to recede so I could show him my creation—my treasure-hostage. It was cool in here, cool in a suspended, seasonless way.

  “Why have you brought me here? I don’t like tombs.”

  “Ah, but this is a very special tomb. For one thing, these doors.” I extended my arm and pointed at them.

  “What about them?”

  “They remain open now, but are engineered so they can be closed only once. When they descend down the tracks of their posts, they seal themselves shut forever. After the last funeral—mine or Antony’s—when the mourners depart, the doors will enclose us in solitude for all eternity.” I paused. “It is an old Egyptian idea, grafted onto a Greek-style temple. We will not be disturbed by tomb robbers, for no valuables will be buried with us.”

  I sensed, rather than saw, his shudder. “Let us leave.”

  I ignored his request. “The valuables I am going to show you will have all been given to Octavian, and the mausoleum will be empty of treasure. That is, if he agrees to my request.”

  Now at last we could see. I led him past the two sarcophagi and around the polished black pillars to the mountain of treasure. He stood staring at it, taken by surprise at last. He had not been prepared for this.

  I walked around the pile. “Here it is—gold, silver, pearls, lapis, emeralds—enough to pay any debts Octavian has, no matter how large. This represents many times the annual income and treasury of Rome. It was accumulated by my ancestors—the last unplundered source of wealth in the world, save that of the Parthians. Think what your master can do with it! And it is all his, without a drop of bloodshed, without the loss of a single life, if he just agrees that either Caesarion or Alexander and Selene can be crowned ruler of Egypt. As for my person, I will remove myself. As you can see, I have prepared a place to go.” I nodded toward the sarcophagi.

  “By all the gods…” His voice was faint.

  “And this is not all,” I assured him. “Of course Rome would have the grain of Egypt at her disposal, year after year. That would be part of the bargain.”

  “I do not think Octavian pictured this,” he finally said. “But, fair lady, this could never make him happy if it were got in exchange for your life.”

  “Oh, I imagine he could force himself to appreciate it,” I said. “So. What will be his answer?”

  He reached out and stroked a bar of gold. “It isn’t even cold,” he said wonderingly.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Whoever describes gold as being hard and cold has never had the privilege of touching large pieces of it in pure form. As a metal it is very soft, forgiving, and eager to shape itself to you; and it never feels frigidly cold like iron. A mysterious substance, gold.” I touched it fondly. “Bring me your master’s answer as soon as possible. For you can see that I have the means of destroying it all if his answer does not please me.” I indicated the wood and pitch at the bottom of the pile.

  “He desires to please you.” Thyrsus took my hand and kissed it. “It is his deepest wish.” He stepped closer, and did not let go of my hand. “Trust him, and trust the power you already wield over his…his feelings.” He kissed my hand again, lingering.

  “Then let him stop disguising them, and allow them to shine forth,” I said. “Things hidden cannot be responded to.”

  He kept kissing my hand, and his thick hair fell forward, touching my wrist.

  “So!” A harsh voice rang out from the doorway: Antony’s.

  Thyrsus sprang away guiltily.

  Antony almost leapt across the space and grabbed Thyrsus. “So! This is what Octavian sends! A fawning, silly boy! And you!” He rounded on me. “How can you stand there, allowing him to slobber all over your hand, encouraging him, leading him on?”

  He almost lifted Thyrsus off his feet, hauling him up by one shoulder. “Betraying me!”

  “No,” I said. He had misunderstood everything, and spoiled my carefully constructed plan. “Stop it. Let him go!”

  “Don’t take up for him! How dare he take such liberties?” He stuck his face up into Thyrsus’s. “Who are you?”

  “Octavian’s friend and freedman, Thyrsus,” he squeaked out.

  “A freedman! He sends a freedman here as his messenger? And a freedman approaches the Queen of Egypt, sidles up, like a confidant? Oh, the insolence!”

  “Sir,” said Thyrsus, “I have done no wrong, nor acted disrespectfully. The Queen brought me here for her own reasons.”

  “Is that so?” yelled Antony. “And I suppose she invited you to take her hand? You need to learn manners, young man! Guards!”

  The two soldiers guarding the entrance to the mausoleum came to his call. “Sir?”

  “Whip this man!” he ordered. “Take him out and whip him thoroughly!”

  “I am Octavian’s official envoy!” he protested. “You dare not—”

  He should not have used those words, dare not. I attempted to placate Antony.

  “Please!” I said. “This violates protocol. It is unworthy of you!”

  “So now you take his part? I should have known!”

  “I only seek to prevent you from rash action that will harm your reputation.”

  “Tell your master Octavian that if he wishes to get even, he can whip Hipparchus, my old freedman, who deserted me for him!” he shouted at Thyrsus. “Thus I will be doubly satisfied!” He laughed harshly as the soldiers dragged Thyrsus away.

  “You fool!” I cried. “You’ve ruined everything!”

  “What have I ruined? Your double-dealing with Octavian?” he sneered.

  “I am trying to save Egypt for my children! It is all we can hope for!”

  “So you simper and entertain whomever Octavian sends?” he cried. “I am disappointed in you.”

  “I am bargaining, the most desperate bargain of my life. This treasure”—I pointed at it—“for Egypt’s freedom.”

  “I notice you say nothing about our freedom.”

  “I am afraid that is not likely,” I said. “I have limited hopes, not impossible ones.”

  “What did he say?”

  “To my offer, he made no reply yet. That was why I was showing Thyrsus the treasure, so he could comprehend what the offer really meant. As for yours…Octavian has rejected it, as I knew he would.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “That you could find other means of doing away with yourself.”

  “Perhaps I shall, then!”

  “We both shall, when the time comes. Now calm yourself.” I sought to soothe him.

  But my spirits were dashed. Octavian would not forgive the insult to him in whipping his envoy, and it would harden his heart against my offer. He would not consider it now.

  Oh, why did Antony have to come in when he did?

  Hurrying away to my own apartments under the pretext of a meeting with Mardian, I withdrew to think. Perhaps I could fix it. But Antony must not know. I must see Thyrsus before he returned to Octavian’s camp. I would have to—to tell him something. Do something. Something strong enough to overcome his mistreatment. But what? What?

  I told one of my guards to go immediately to the punishment grounds and order the whipping stopped, if it was still going on, and to detain the man. Then notify him to wait for me. As soon as he left, his sword slapping smartly against his side, I summoned Olympos, who was none too pleased to be hauled from his supper.

  “Make me the best ointment you know for healing wounds!” I ordered.

&nbs
p; He got that superior look on his face. “What kind of wound?” he asked. “They are not all the same. A puncture wound? A dog bite? A sword thrust?”

  “The stripes from whipping,” I said.

  He looked surprised. “Why, who has been whipped?”

  “Someone who shouldn’t have been!” I said. “Antony has violated every rule of protocol and had Octavian’s messenger whipped!”

  Even Olympos looked shocked. “No!” Then, “What did he do to deserve it?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing, but…be young and on the stronger side, and carry himself accordingly.” That was the truth of it.

  “Ah.” Olympos shook his head. “It is most unlike Antony. These are dark days for him.” Then he said briskly, “I’ll make it up right away. I think for raw skin like that, a compound of roasted natron, vinegar, honey, and bile…”

  While he was gone, I busied myself composing some nonsense of a note for Thyrsus to take to Octavian, something I could sign with my royal seal. It did not matter what it said, as long as it promised nothing, but gave him something to open.

  “Most noble Oct—” No, not that name…“Young Caesar, I long to lay all my treasure at your feet in exchange for your solemn promise that you will confirm my son on the throne of Egypt….” Nothing new, but it was words.

  Holding the precious jar of ointment in my hands and hidden under the shadow of a voluminous hooded mantle, I passed silently down into the military quarters adjoining the palace, where Thyrsus was being held.

  He was slumped on a bench, his thick hair matted with sweat, his head down between his knees. In the torchlight I could see the welts on his back, red ruts like miniature cart tracks. Little scraps of skin were torn and hanging on each side. He was groaning and shivering—no longer the proud young envoy.

  I stood before him and pulled back my hood. His eyes had traveled up from the sandals that were no soldier’s, all the way to my face, and his shock at seeing me was evident. But he did not rise; perhaps he felt that all rules had gone by the board now.