The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  He was instantly beside me. “This is the fifth day since the funeral,” he said.

  Five days. I had dreamed away five days. Octavian had been in Alexandria for eight, then. Antony dead for eight. I shuddered, and Olympos drew a covering over my shoulder.

  “Go to Octavian,” I said. “Or tell Dolabella to do so. Tell him I am recovering, but that I wish to have a box I left behind in the apartments, which I will let him inspect. And my papers—the ones in the workroom. I need them, too. Let him see them, so he knows it is no trick. But I need them.”

  Mardian rustled over. “You don’t need papers! You mustn’t trouble yourself with—”

  “I think it is a good sign she asks for them,” said Olympos dryly. “It means she is scheming again.”

  I had not got that far; I was not sure I could scheme, or that I had the means at hand to do so. But the papers would help me decide.

  “The ivory box with the lock,” I said. “And the papers—in the wooden container in the workroom, by the stool.”

  “More soup first,” said Olympos firmly. “Here we have some delicious soup of goat’s milk and barley….”

  It warmed my stomach, helped push the dizziness away. I struggled to sit up and see where I was. The quarters where we had been transferred…the sun was coming in, and that meant we were facing south. There were no bars on the windows; they were pretending we were not strict prisoners.

  “Outside—who is stationed outside the door?” I asked.

  “There’s that Epaphroditus in the outer chamber,” said Mardian, “and then, outside that, two or three guards.”

  From the way he said “that Epaphroditus,” I could tell he did not like him.

  The afternoon passed; I saw the slant of the light change as the sun moved across the windows.

  I was still shivering and weak, as I discovered when I tried to sit up. My bones felt like jelly. It would take as many more days for me to recover as I had been ill.

  Mardian ceremoniously brought in the two boxes, and placed them on a table. “He made no trouble about it,” he said. “Or so Epaphroditus claimed.”

  Now I must look through them. But later. I had not the strength now.

  “Draw the curtains,” I said. “Shut out the light. I must sleep.”

  I dreamed, a deep, sweet dream of being on the seas, riding over the wave troughs, a western wind filling the sails. I knew it was a western wind, as one does in dreams, and that it was bringing me home, back to Egypt, with Rome at my back. Caesarion was with me, still a small child, holding my hand. I could taste the salt spray in my mouth, could feel the jolts as the ship rode the waves…exhilarating, fast….

  “Madam!” An urgent voice filled my ear, a hand shook my shoulder. “Madam! It is Octavian!”

  The words twined themselves around my dream, so somehow it was the ropes of the ship singing “Octavian, Octavian!” But the shaking continued, and I had the horror of hearing the words, loud now, no dream.

  “The most glorious Imperator Caesar,” barked a stranger’s voice.

  I opened my eyes to see him standing there, stiffly, staring at me from the door of the room. Octavian himself.

  Although a cold recognition ran through me, it still seemed like a dream. The man himself, in the flesh, after a hundred statues, coins, imaginings.

  And to have swooped down on me like this. He had won the day; I had not even the vestige of a plan of how to address him, had not looked at the papers, had not even stood up or dressed myself—

  I was lying in a sweat-soaked sickbed, dirty, undressed, weak. He had all the advantages; I could not face him like this.

  He was staring at me in frank distaste, colored by suspicion at what his eyes beheld. Finding some hidden store of strength in my legs, I left the bed and walked across the floor to him. Then weakness caused me to sink to my knees in front of him and grasp his feet. I shivered as I touched them; all this still seemed part of the fever-dream. I was too aware that I was wearing only a thin sleep-garment, that my hair was wild and matted.

  “Up, up,” he said, in that voice that I would recognize anywhere. Flat, quiet, a deadly monotone.

  In truth, I did not have the power to rise. I just huddled there, shaking.

  “Up, up, I say.” An emotion at last: a hint of impatience, annoyance. He reached down and touched my shoulder, then offered his hand. It was dry, like a lizard. He drew me up.

  “Imperator,” I said in so small a voice it was almost a whisper, “the day is yours. Hail, master—for heaven has granted you the mastery and taken it from me.”

  He motioned to Epaphroditus—a burly, plain man, nothing like my Epaphroditus—to help me back to the bed. I did not argue; I was at a loss as to what to do. Then, to my horror, Octavian sat down on it beside me.

  We looked at one another. I tried to concentrate on what I saw and forget what he was seeing. Strange how little he had changed, but how age puts a new stamp on our features. The triangular face, the wide-set eyes, the little ears, the prim mouth, all the same, but the expression in the eyes, the hard-set clamping of the mouth, had cast the old sweetness away and replaced it with an implacable wariness. The Roman boy, Antony had called him, but he was no boy, and had not a shred of youthfulness.

  His gray-blue eyes, with that darker rim around them…they were looking directly into mine, no deference or shielding. This was a man who was not afraid to stare, where the boy had veiled his looks.

  How hard you have grown, I wanted to murmur. And how old you have grown, he would answer.

  Now his eyes moved to my neck and farther down. He was inspecting the wounds on my upper body, as if to convince himself they were real. Satisfied, he took his eyes away and attempted a stiff smile.

  “I trust the Queen is recovering?” he asked politely.

  “Little by little, I mend.” It was hard to get the words out.

  “You must take care of yourself,” he said. “Your health is important to us.”

  I must think. This was my interview, whether I wanted it now or not. I must use it as best I could. “For that, I thank you,” I said.

  He kept staring at me. Finally he said, “For years you have filled my vision. Wherever I looked, you blocked my way.” He shifted his weight a little. He was about to take his leave!

  “Sir, may we speak in private?” I asked him. “May I send these attendants away?”

  He looked startled. “The guards—” he said.

  “Of course you must leave the guards at the door,” I said. “But the others?”

  He gave a curt nod; with so small a motion may the master of the world dismiss all those around him. Charmian, Iras, Mardian, Olympos, and Epaphroditus all filed out.

  Octavian and I faced one another, less than an arm’s length away.

  I tried to smile. I knew my smile was a good spokesman. I lifted my chin as if I felt better than I did. I would have to forget about the dirty, transparent clothes, and my uncombed hair. I would have to make him forget them, too. “Sir,” I said, “what can I do but ask you to remember that night so long ago, when we first met at the home of Caesar? We were both dear to him, and it would grieve him if we continued to hate one another. Under his shadow we must reconcile.”

  “I do not hate you,” he said, and in his cold voice I heard something worse than hate.

  “You have ample reason to, and would be as godlike as Caesar himself if you did not.”

  He grunted, and crossed his arms, as if to protect himself.

  “But I ask you to consider, and respect the trust I was held in by the man whom you love and honor more than anyone who ever lived,” I said. “I wish you to read these letters, letters he wrote me in his own hand, so you can learn something of me from him, see me through his eyes.” I got up and took the box from the table, and handed it to him.

  I was deeply thankful that I had retained some of the letters. Let them plead for me now!

  Octavian unlatched the box and drew out a letter. Wordlessly, he read
it. Very fast—too fast.

  “Of what avail to me are these letters now?” I murmured, as if to Caesar himself, embodied in the letters. “Would that I had died before you. But in this young man, perhaps in some way you may still live for me.”

  Octavian just grunted again, and took up another letter. His eyes skimmed it, and he folded it up.

  Surely he would read them all, and more thoroughly!

  “Very interesting,” is all he said. He closed the box. Now he shifted again, ready to take his leave.

  I must think of something else to delay him, sway him.

  “I regret my actions that have caused Rome grief,” I finally said. “We are not always free to choose our course of action.”

  “On the contrary,” he said, “we are always responsible for what we do—and for what we cause others to do, leading them into error and treason.”

  He meant Antony. He meant I had led him astray.

  “Lord Antony and I were not always in agreement in everything,” I said. True enough. “Sometimes he pursued actions, and I was punished for them. I am well aware that Rome declared me, not Antony, the enemy. And yet, forget not, it was Caesar who placed me on my throne, Caesar who declared me an ally of the Roman people. He was wise, for I have been a devoted ruler of my country, and I have never been Rome’s enemy.” I paused. Was he listening? “Like you, I pursued the murderers of Caesar, and would not rest until they were punished.”

  “Yes, well, they are all dead now,” he said with satisfaction. “They have paid the price.”

  “We are not so far apart, you and I, in what we want.”

  “And what is it you want?” he asked bluntly.

  “To have the throne continue with the Ptolemaic line. To be Rome’s ally. And to live a quiet and honorable life, in exile if necessary.”

  He did not answer immediately, but turned the words over in his mind.

  “That is for the Senate to decide,” he finally said. “Now that the Republic will be restored…but you may rest assured that I will safeguard all your interests.”

  “I am entirely yours, Imperator,” I said. “I throw myself on your mercy. Only give me some assurance that my children will wear the crown!”

  He sighed, as if he found this embarrassing. “I will do what I can,” he said. “Certainly a house that has ruled for three hundred years…” He let the sentence trail off, teasingly.

  “When I sent messages to you, I promised all my treasure in exchange for that. I now yield up that treasure to you, more than just what was in the mausoleum. Here it is, a thorough accounting.” Now I rose and placed the big wooden box in his hands. “I had it all drawn up for you, long before you arrived. See the date, see the seal?”

  He was immediately interested. The list of property excited him as the letters from Caesar had failed to. He was a man of the here and now, and cared little for sentiment.

  “Hmm.” He unrolled one scroll and held it out. His arms were surprisingly muscular. Perhaps the campaigns had done him some good after all. And he wasn’t coughing, either. “And this is everything, you say?”

  “Yes, everything I own. In exchange for my children’s lives, their right to the crown of Egypt.”

  “Hmmm.” He was studying it carefully. Suddenly he bellowed, “You! Mardian!”

  What was he doing?

  Mardian appeared, puzzled and on guard. “Yes, Imperator?”

  “This list,” Octavian said. “Look it over! Is it a complete list?”

  Mardian looked at me for directions, but Octavian was watching my face to make sure I signaled nothing. I just smiled.

  “Uhh—” Mardian was sweating; I could see the beads forming on his forehead, like seed pearls. “I—no, most noble Imperator, there seem to be some omissions.” He shot a miserable look at me. But, in doubt, he had just decided to tell the truth.

  “Aha!” said Octavian, a wicked smile on his face. “What sort of omissions?”

  “There seems to be—there is some property withheld.”

  “What sort of property?”

  And in that instant, Isis granted me the power I needed. I saw directly into Octavian’s mind; it was as if I could read his thoughts as easily as he read the scroll.

  He plans to take you back to Rome for his Triumph, mocking you and then killing you. He will grant you no mercy at all. Your only hope of outwitting him and escaping is to convince him you are eager to live, and are still plotting earthly schemes. He will try to counteract them—and while he is standing guard in one direction, you are free to go in another.

  Use the false accounting to prove it to him….

  “Shut up, Mardian!” I screamed, and leapt at him. The gods that had given me the insight had also given me the strength to spring half across the room. I started pelting Mardian on the shoulders, the arms, and trying to smack his face. “You miserable traitor! How dare you betray me?”

  Then I turned to Octavian and started crying. “Oh, this is more than I can bear! To have had to receive you in such a fashion, when you have honored me by a visit, and then to be insulted by my own servant!” I cast my eyes down. “Yes, it is true. I have held back some jewels, some art, but only because I needed something to try to placate your wife and your sister in Rome. Yes, I hoped to buy some mercy from the women in your family, praying that they would pity me, woman to woman. I did not know what else to do.”

  He laughed condescendingly. “Of course you may keep your baubles. Do not worry about such things. Keep anything you like.”

  “But they are not for me, they are for Livia and Octavia.”

  He smiled. “Yes, indeed.”

  And again, I could see into his mind. He believed that I fiercely wished to live, and was scheming to better my lot. I had won.

  “Now, most gracious Queen,” he was saying smoothly, “you may be well assured, your treatment will be far beyond your expectations. You may trust me.”

  He smiled, the first genuine smile of the entire interview. There was even something else in his eyes: the lechery that Thyrsus had hinted at. “And now I must take my leave. I would not overtire you.” He bent his head and kissed my hand. His hair flopped forward, and when he straightened, he smoothed it back, as if he would look his best for me.

  I rose to see him to the door. “You are too kind, Imperator,” I said.

  When the tramp of feet assured me he was gone, I fell into Mardian’s arms.

  “Are you mad?” he said. “What is all this? What have you done?” And then, plaintively, “Why did you hit me?”

  “Quickly, before Olympos returns—I must tell you that I have seen through Octavian. I know what he means to do. But we will still be able to carry out our original plan, if he is deceived into thinking we have put all such thoughts far from us. I had to pretend you had exposed my scheming. Be on guard! We will find a way, now!”

  A feeling akin to happiness now rose in me. I did not know what it was. But I know now. It was completion, triumph, grasping the Olympic crown in my hands and lowering it onto my head.

  87

  Octavian outdid himself in lavish attentions. Within an hour, platters heaped high with melons, pomegranates, dates, and green figs arrived, followed by an amphora of Laodicean wine (Antony had not succeeded in depleting all the palace supplies, in spite of his strenuous efforts). He even sent his own physician in to “help” Olympos, who listened disdainfully to his advice.

  The fresh figs were good. “He means to fatten me up,” I said. He wanted me well enough to walk those miles behind his chariot, through the city of Rome and the Forum. And of course I would need the strength to drag chains along with me. Yes, it would take a lot of nursing and good food. Sweet Octavian.

  He cloaked his dagger in unctuous compliments that he sent along with his gifts. His heart was gladdened to see that I was out of danger. He was honored that I would trust him to carry out my wishes. I must think no more about the gifts for Livia and Octavia, but bedeck myself instead. And so on.

&nb
sp; I lay back on the bed—spread now with the finest palace linens, sent posthaste by Octavian—and willed myself to regain my strength. Already the excitement and danger had wrought a change in me. My appetite surged back, and soon we had depleted all of Octavian’s offerings.

  “Ask for roast ox,” I told Mardian. “He will send it within an hour.”

  And he did. Oh, he was most solicitous.

  I slept a true sleep that night for the first time since Alexandria had fallen.

  Since Octavian was eager to be so accommodating, there was one request I must make in earnest: to see the children. I sent a properly cringing, cloying letter to him and waited. Soon Dolabella was knocking, answer in hand. My request was granted. The children would be brought to my quarters.

  Oh, now my heart truly rose! I hungered for the sight of them, as only another mother can understand. I needed badly to see them, hold them, feel their sturdy shoulders and arms. I needed to know how they fared, what had happened to them in the nine days since we had been parted.

  Octavian had yielded up my robes and gowns from the wardrobe room, and so I was able to lay aside the soiled sleeping-garment and dress myself. It was important that they should see me as I wished to be seen, so they could remember.

  My own mother…what did I remember of her? My children were all older than I had been when my mother vanished, and would carry a clearer picture of me. Alexander and Selene were almost as old as I had been when Father lost his throne and fled, and I remembered that acutely. Yes, they would remember….

  “Mother!” The three of them were ushered into the room, and the high-pitched relief in their voices was impossible to miss.

  “My dearests!” I bent a little to embrace all three of them, holding them to me as tightly as possible. They were here, they lived, they would survive. With or without a crown, it did not matter anymore, if they would just survive!

  “You’ve hurt yourself,” said Selene, looking at the marks on my arms and chest.

  “It was an accident,” I said. “And they are greatly improved.”

  “But how did it happen?” asked Philadelphos. “Did you run into something? A door full of nails?” He wrinkled his nose and strained himself imagining it.