The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  Dawn. Dawn on the tenth day, the last day. So ten is to be my sacred number, the one reserved for me. The ten scrolls were emblematic. I still have this tenth, and I mean to keep it with me until the end. I yet have things to impart.

  “Permission granted!” Epaphroditus steps into the room, beaming. “I am pleased to tell you that the Imperator has graciously consented that you may leave the palace and attend the tomb of the lord Antony as you have requested. He himself will provide the traditional food for the banquet, and the guards to attend you. He regrets that he cannot attend in person, but his thoughts will be with you.”

  I incline my head. “My thanks to the Imperator.”

  “In addition, he is sending your crown, jewels, and other insignia. You may keep whatever you like; he had already assured you of that. They are on their way even now.” Epaphroditus bows smartly.

  “And the special oils?” asks Charmian.

  “Oh yes. Of course.”

  So it is all to be permitted. Still, the “gracious” Imperator has not seen fit to inform me that I am being taken to Rome. An oversight, no doubt.

  And now it is time. The bath is drawn, the precious oil of lotus is poured from its slender stoppered bottle and mingles with the warm water. I float in the fragrant pool, lying motionless. My hair is washed in rainwater, rinsed with scented water brought all the way from the sacred well at Heliopolis. Iras combs it out, lets it fall straight where it will dry.

  We open the coffer of jewels. They are all there; Octavian has removed nothing. There is the magnificent collar with its layers of carnelian, lapis, gold, turquoise. It covers from the neck to below the shoulders. There is the wedding necklace, the fantasy of gold leaves.

  “Both of them,” I say. “Why not both?” Why not, indeed?

  The headdress is shaped like a vulture, the protective goddess of Upper Egypt, and the feathers spread out over my head, encasing it. The wings make shields around my cheeks. On my brow is a wide uraeus, the sacred cobra of Lower Egypt, hood spread, ready to strike.

  Already I feel remote, removed from Charmian, Iras, Mardian. The gradual layering of costume, heavy with symbol and power, has changed me into something else, even though they were the ones to bedeck me and effect the transformation. Now it is done, and I am another creature.

  Even if my children were to burst into the room, even if I were told I could return to my old life, I could not. The change is basic, and irreversible. Just so can death anticipate itself.

  The soldiers arrive. We leave the room, through the passage, step outside into the open air. The day is bright and clear, the air pure. A day at its height, as if it wanted to leave an impression to carry into the darkness, to linger in our hearts. There are six soldiers, large men, and the faithful, spying Epaphroditus. His master must be informed, know all that passes.

  Across the grounds of the palace. Green grass, shaded paths. The soldiers all gone, no one watching. The day sings, rejoices.

  Our little procession keeps a stately pace. It is hard to move beneath all my regalia; the collars, the headdress press on me, weigh me down. Under all this my body is small and light, but it is smothered, shackled.

  The yawning doors of the mausoleum. I dread to enter, but only because beholding Antony’s tomb causes me such pain. Seeing my own, ready, gives me joy.

  The tramp of their feet: The soldiers are following us into the tomb itself. Very well, then, let them listen!

  I approach the granite sarcophagus, so neatly sealed, so finished, so final. Antony dead for ten days. Ten days, ten portentous days. How have I lived without him all this time?

  I hold the wreaths of flowers, the Pharaonic garlands of cornflowers, willow, olive, poppies, yellow ox-tongue. I kneel and drape them over the cold stone. Then the sacred oil, poured onto the surface and spread by my fingers until the granite gleams higher than ever.

  “O Antony,” I say. I believe that he can hear me. At the same time I know the soldiers are listening intently.

  “Beloved husband…with these hands I buried you. Then they were free. Now I am bound as a captive, and pay even these last duties with a guard upon me. They watch me to keep me whole for the celebration of our defeat. I am to help them rejoice in our downfall.” I keep rubbing the oil into the stone, with circling movements. The soldiers bend close, the better to listen, catch each word.

  “Expect no further offerings from me; these are the last honors that your Cleopatra can pay your memory. I am being hurried away from you. Nothing could divide us while we lived, but now, in death…” Were the soldiers listening? Did they hear clearly?

  I speak louder. “…in death, we are threatened with separation. You, a Roman born, have found your grave in Egypt; I, an Egyptian, am to seek that favor, and none but that, in your country.”

  Then the soldiers vanish from my consciousness; there is only Antony, and me. Now I speak only to him, in a whisper. “But if the gods below, with whom you now are, either can or will do anything—since those above have betrayed us!—suffer not your living wife to be abandoned; let me not be led in triumph to your shame, but hide me and bury me here with you…since, among my bitter misfortunes, nothing has afflicted me like this brief time I have lived away from you.” I am crying—I, who thought myself to be lifted past all feeling.

  Life apart from him…had there been any?

  The soldiers lean forward to hear. I rise and, lying across the sarcophagus, kiss it. The hard, cold stone is my bed. There are no more words. I wait for the constriction in my throat to release its grip.

  They also wait, stiffly. Charmian, Iras, and Mardian do not dare to move, and no one touches me. Finally I pull myself from the sarcophagus.

  “And now we will have the funeral meal,” I say.

  The chief soldier gives the order, and—so soon it feels like an instant—a procession of dishes is brought in and set before us on a ceremonial table.

  In ancient days, Egyptian tombs had chambers where the family of the dead man could feast before his statue. His spirit would come and join them.

  “I thank you,” I say. “Now, since you are not Egyptian, nor of this family, I would ask you to withdraw and keep watch at the door. And please take this message to the Imperator, expressing my thanks.” I hand the note to the head soldier.

  Politely they withdraw.

  “Pray close the doors,” I say.

  “Shall we see?” whispers Charmian.

  “In time, in time,” I say. Now there is no hurry. Let everything be done in order, as it is meant to be. “Spread the feast.”

  A repast worthy of the gods is ours. There is the traditional mortuary offering of beer, bread, ox, and geese: every good and pure thing upon which the god lives, for the ka of Marcus Antonius, deceased. There is also Roman bread, and Antony’s favorite wine. Pity we have no appetite. But so that the ritual be observed, we taste everything once. We would not have the cooks labor in vain.

  “Give me the scroll,” I ask Mardian, who takes it from his carrying pouch, along with writing implements.

  “Please allow me a few minutes to write,” I ask them. In the dimness I spread the paper out and record what has passed since we have left the palace. It is brief, hurried. Forgive me. Neither the right words nor the right conditions are at my command. But they must serve for you, Caesarion, Olympos, and anyone who needs to know of these last hours. Now I leave it, to await the last.

  “Now,” I say to Iras. “You may see if all is as I have prayed.”

  With her grace of movement—ah! I will miss it!—she slips around to the dark part of the mausoleum. We wait. Isis will not fail me. She awaits me. She has stayed the hand of any soldiers, has blindfolded any searchers, so that I may come to her now, in my own time.

  Iras glides back out into the light, holding the basket aloft. “It was overlooked,” she says. “But the trunk, with the clothes and crown, is gone.”

  The trunk had been large, and held a treasure. A dusty basket is easy to overlook. Particul
arly one with old figs in it—dark figs, bulbous and musty. Masking the characteristic scent of the serpents—a smell not unlike cucumbers in the field, lying under the sun. Nakht had done well.

  “Give it to me,” I say. It is heavy. I had not expected it to be so heavy.

  I put the basket on the funeral table, lift the lid. A slight stirring inside. A gentle sliding. Then something rears up.

  I take the serpent in my hand. It is thick, cool, mostly dark with a lighter underside. Its tongue flicks out. It seems very docile.

  I draw it slowly out of its basket. It is longer than I had guessed; as long as the span of both my arms. And as it flops out, I see more movement in the basket. Nakht has sent two. That was foresighted of him.

  “So here it is,” I say, staring at the serpent. Its dark eyes look into mine. Its tongue wavers, testing. I hold it up.

  Mardian, Iras, and Charmian flinch. They cannot help it.

  “Madam—” says Charmian, but her protest dies on her lips.

  The creature seems sluggish. He lies upon my hand as if he were a pet, as tame as my dear monkey. But we have not all the time in the world. Octavian will get the note soon. He will know.

  I smack its head, and it draws back, hissing. Then the hood—familiar from a thousand representations, reflected on my own crown—spreads itself.

  So quickly that I cannot follow it with my eyes, it strikes. It bites my arm, sinking its fangs in. They feel like needles, tiny little pins.

  Now I wait. With great joy I know I am delivered. I can only write a little more. It was my other arm it struck, but I yet have things to do before I sleep. My arm tingles; the fingers grow cold, as if they do not belong to me. The loss of sensation is creeping upward, but there is no real pain. At the same time it is affecting my mind; I feel a carelessness—more deadly than pain—taking possession of me. It is a fuzzy lightheartedness…why be concerned? Why take pains to finish the task?

  Because I am the Queen. And my will is stronger than the poison. I will do what I must, until the last moment.

  So I close you, and entrust you to Olympos. May my story be preserved, and the truth survive. The world is a hard place to leave. I have done my best by it, served it and loved it with all my being.

  Isis, your daughter comes. Please spread your robe, and welcome her. She has journeyed long to reach you.

  I feel a tugging, pulling me downward. Now I must close you, scroll. Farewell. Vale, as the Romans say. We part now. Remember me. May you live a thousand—ten thousand—years, so that I may live also.

  Peace, my heart. Obey me and stand still. For I have done.

  HERE ENDS THE TENTH SCROLL.

  The Scroll of Olympos

  1

  Fool! Fool that I am! I suspected nothing, all these months—I cannot believe I was so taken in. But was not your way better than mine? What could my way offer you? I am ashamed that evidently I knew you so much less well than I thought. Puffed up with my own sense of responsibility, I thought I could control events—or rather (see, even here I flatter myself) I was afraid to help move them. Instead I sat like a rock, thinking I was wise and strong, when all I truly was was a hindrance and a wedge between us.

  The sun was setting and I was just finishing my own supper when the soldiers stormed in. (Why am I writing this as if you do not know it all, as if you did not, somehow, behold it? I am frantic, trying to calm myself. Talking wildly.) There were three of them, enormous fellows, made even more enormous by their thick breastplates and high helmets. One of them grabbed me by the shoulder and shook me. I thought my teeth would fly out.

  “Filthy Greek!” he shouted. “Filthy, lying, treacherous Greek!” Then he threw me against the wall. I hit it so hard I actually bounced off and fell onto my face on the floor.

  Then I was hauled up again, and there was more yelling in my ear. All the shaking, throwing, and bouncing made me feel nauseated. I was afraid I would vomit right onto the soldier’s sandals, which were wavering dangerously before my eyes.

  “You did it, you can undo it!”

  “Let him loose, Appius,” one of the others said. “It won’t do any good to have him dead, too.”

  “If he can’t fix it, he will be dead,” my tormentor said.

  As soon as I heard “dead,” I knew. And, oddly, what I felt was relief. (Then why had I tried to prevent it? Why had I driven you to resort to the bizarre?)

  “The Queen is—you have to save her!” bellowed Appius, the leader.

  “Where is she? What has happened?” I asked. A fair question, would you not agree?

  “You know well enough,” he snapped. “Since you arranged it!”

  He jerked my arm and started pulling me toward the door. For good measure another soldier stuck a dagger at my back—as if I needed prodding.

  When we reached the mausoleum, a huge crowd was gathered outside, but the door was strictly guarded. People were trying to peep inside, but the soldiers shoved them back at spearpoint. However, they fell away in exaggerated respect as I was escorted in.

  In the dim light I could see yet more people gathered inside. But I had no eyes for them. All I could see was you.

  Oh, I congratulate you. You had arranged it so well, as well as anything you had ever undertaken. Perhaps everything else had been just a preparation for this, your coup and masterpiece.

  You were lying there on the wide lid of your sarcophagus, as still as stone, wearing your royal robes and crown, your arms crossed, with the crook and flail folded over your breast. That you were completely dead was certain. There would be no rescue, no reversal.

  Nonetheless I approached, while my captors watched eagerly—as if I had some secret of life and death, when all I was was a poor mechanic who could tug at the doors of the underworld occasionally, when the gods permitted me.

  I should tell you (if this is still important to you) that you were utterly beautiful. Whatever means you had chosen had left no mark on you, indeed seemed to have enhanced your appearance. Or perhaps it was just the joy of departure. You were so very happy to escape.

  It was not until I took my eyes off your face that I saw the crumpled bodies of Iras and Charmian lying beside the sarcophagus. I bent down and touched them. They were dead, too.

  Only then did I take your hand, just to be sure, before I spoke. Some trace of warmth yet lingered.

  “They are all beyond saving,” I said.

  “The Psylli can work miracles,” said one of the soldiers. “The Imperator has already sent for them.”

  Now I was astounded. “It was snakes?” I asked.

  “We think so,” said one man. “We found a trail outside, and this basket—” He held up a wide-mouthed basket that had figs in it.

  I looked at you carefully. There seemed to be two tiny marks on one of your arms, but I could not be sure.

  Snakes. How fitting. Not only are they sacred to Egypt, but associated with the power of the underworld and with fertility. Perhaps I did you a favor by refusing more conventional poisons.

  The Psylli arrived, with much ado. These tribesmen are renowned for supposedly being immune to snake poison, and able to suck the venom from a victim’s wound and revive him. But they were far too late, in spite of making a fuss and lingering over your arm.

  However, they soon found a target for their attentions, because a moaning from the back of the mausoleum revealed Mardian, doubled up and unconscious. They hovered around him, locating the bite in his leg and treating it vigorously.

  In the meantime, Octavian arrived, angry and white-faced. He marched directly over to the sarcophagus and stared down at you. I thought he would never stop; his face was unreadable. Finally he stepped back and said, but only to himself, “Very well, then. Indeed I shall grant the request.”

  He shook his head and only then looked around. “All dead?” he asked.

  “Sir, the Queen was already dead when we got in,” said the head guard. “The women were in the process of dying. One was lying here”—he pointed to t
he limp Iras—“and the other one was straightening the Queen’s crown. I seized her and said, ‘Mistress, is this well done of your lady?’ and she answered, ‘Extremely well, and as becomes the descendant of so many kings.’ Then she fell dead, too.”

  “She spoke the truth,” said Octavian. He had an odd smile on his face, it was a smile of—yes, admiration. You had impressed him. Outsmarting him had won his highest respect.

  “Prepare them all for the burial the Queen requested.” He handed the guard a note.

  He looked at you almost fondly. “The note spoke well for you.” He glanced over at the other sarcophagus. “You and your Antony will lie here together. No, death will not separate you.” Then he turned smartly on his heel.

  “Sir,” said one of the guards, “there is this one fellow here who survives.” And they carried Mardian around to Octavian, and laid him at his feet.

  Octavian laughed. “So this is all the efforts of the Psylli have achieved? He is of no use to me. Nor to anyone, now. Retire from public life, if you recover,” he said, dismissing him. “Come.” He motioned to his guards. Then, abruptly, he turned to me. I thought he had not even seen me, let alone remembered me.

  “I will forget the words you spoke to me in Rome about the false claims of the Queen’s son,” he said. “I suggest you forget them, too.”

  Then he was gone.

  The Psylli left, and all the extra guards. Morticians came in to ready the dead for burial, and I looked my last at you.

  No matter how long we look, eventually we must stop looking, and go away. It is what the living are forced to do. No amount of looking ever makes us ready to leave.

  But I could not live here, in the mausoleum. You had given me a task. My work was yet to be done.

  Yes, it was well done, and fitting for the descendant of so many kings. I salute you, even as I grieve.

  Friend of my childhood, I had hoped to share old age with you as well. But goddesses do not grow old.