"So, if you wanted to kill an enemy, you could serve him the poisoned honey?" asked Ptolemy.
"Yes. I don't know how much it would take to kill him, though. He might have to eat a great deal."
We began walking along the pebbled pathway. On each side lay neat beds of plants.
"I have arranged all the deadly ones to the left," said Olympos. He paused before a clump of plants with lobed, hairy leaves, standing about a foot tall. Buds of flowers were visible, furled on top of the stalks. "Can you guess what that is?" he asked us.
"Just a weed, like what we see in meadows everywhere," I said. "And sometimes I have noticed it growing out of crevices in walls."
"It's henbane," said Olympos, with satisfaction. "It can kill you in only a few minutes. Painfully, too. But in small doses--I have a feeling that it could actually be medicinal. I think it could be used to stop vomiting. But there is no way to control the strength of it. The poison probably varies from plant to plant, and the leaves have different amounts from the roots. It can either make you excited, singing and dancing and talking to imaginary people, or stupefy you, giving you vivid dreams of flying or becoming an animal. Then death. One cannot predict."
"What about just touching it?" I asked.
He smiled. "I always wear gloves." He strolled a little way down the path, then pointed to a patch of white, star-shaped flowers swaying on slender stems. They looked like miniature lilies. "These are called 'dove's dung.' "
"What an ugly name for such a pretty flower," I said.
"All of it is poisonous, but especially the bulbs," said Olympos. "They can be ground up and disguised in flour, to bake a pretty loaf of bread. Of course, it's somewhat bitter, so it would have to be dipped in Jericho rose honey to entice the appetite." He laughed.
"What happens if you eat it?" asked Ptolemy.
"The first thing you'd notice is shortness of breath," said Olympos. "Then gasping. Then--you'd die."
"All in just a few minutes?" he said. "Then that isn't what I've got, even though I have trouble getting my breath."
"No," said Olympos, but I could see him struggle to make a joke of it. "There are no enemies to put a poisoned loaf of bread at your plate."
"Look! What's that?" Ptolemy was enthralled. He pointed to a bushy stand of plants, topped with bunches of delicate white flowers. The stand was almost waist-high.
Olympos stood by them proudly, almost paternally. Yes, it was time he married, and had children to dote over, rather than his plants. "You know how to select the most illustrious. This is none other than hemlock, which ended the life of Socrates."
Hemlock! I stared at it in fascination. The white-topped stalks, with their drooping foliage, looked merry enough. "What happens when you drink it?" I asked.
"Oh, you needn't drink it, although a draught can be made. It has a characteristic odor of mouse urine." He seemed to find this amusing. "You can also use the leaves to make a tasty salad. It takes a little while before the symptoms appear. You would have an opportunity to finish your meal in polite company."
"What does it feel like?" asked Ptolemy.
"Well ... it has been described as a gradual weakening of the muscles, and a creeping paralysis. The mind remains clear, though."
"Is it painful?" I asked. It did not sound like a bad way to die.
"Unfortunately, yes. As the muscles die, they cry out in pain."
"Tell me, Olympos--is there any relatively painless way to die? Through poison, I mean?" I asked.
He thought a moment. "None that I can think of. The body does not want to die, especially if it was perfectly healthy up until the moment it ingested the poison. So it fights. And many of the poisons have more than one effect, causing multiple symptoms."
"What about the hemlock?" Ptolemy was persistent. "How long does that take?"
"Long enough to make memorable deathbed speeches, as Socrates did. That makes it a good choice for writers, poets, and philosophers." He paused. "But hemlock isn't all bad. A little of it can be used to treat chest pains and asthma. Of course, you have to be brave to try it."
"Or desperate," I said.
"Poison and medicine are closely allied. In fact, in Greek the term pharmakon is used for both. And who's to say that when life itself has become a disease, poison may not be the best remedy?"
I thought of the "Roman way" of impaling oneself on a sword. Certainly poison seemed more civilized. And I thought the Romans were a little too eager to commit suicide. It did not take much of a setback before they were reaching for their swords, or opening their veins.
"That is true," I said.
We continued walking down the path, while Olympos pointed here and there. "Deadly nightshade," he said, indicating a spindly-looking shrub with oval leaves on it. "Now that's a lively plant. Everything about it is poisonous. It produces wild symptoms--blurred vision, and heartbeats so loud you can hear them an arm's length away. Very painful." He turned to me. "You wouldn't want to take that."
He ambled along. "Here's the dog-button plant," he said. The flowers were gray and fuzzy. "There's something in it that kills with violent convulsions. It leaves a hideous grimace on the victim's face."
"Enough of this!" I said. "Frankly, they are all beginning to sound alike."
"No, I want to hear more. What's that?" Ptolemy pointed to a bush with stalks of white blossoms.
"A most interesting plant," said Olympos. "Spurge laurel. Even the scent of the flowers can make someone unconscious in a closed room, and it stays poisonous long after it is dead and withered. The symptoms are dreadful: unquenchable thirst, excruciating stomach pains, skin all over the body peeling off, burning inside."
Laurel. I was sure it was not the same leaves as the Romans used in their laurel wreaths, but some of the symptoms sounded similar: unquenchable thirst--for glory; burning inside--for power; stomach pains--gut churning from envy and strife.
"Is there no antidote?" I asked, more for my allegorical illness than for the real one.
"Antidote? Only in trying to help the victim vomit up the poison. And often that seems to harm him as well."
So. Once you were afflicted with it--once the laurel wreath went on your head, you were doomed.
"Let us leave these poisons behind," I said. "Show us the other side of the garden, the side that cures."
Ptolemy made a face. "Oh, that's boring!" And he paid little attention to the beds of healing plants--to the wormwood, henna, labdanum, tragacanth, ginger grass, balsam trees, aloe, and spikenard.
"Now here," said Olympos, "is the corner of the garden where the plants have both properties. Like the bitter apple." He waved at a vine on the ground, just finished flowering and budding with baby gourds. "In small amounts, the fruit can be used to kill insects or induce miscarriage. In large amounts, it makes a messy, painful death."
"Please don't use it on us," Ptolemy said.
"And here is the famous, mythical mandrake," said Olympos? He pointed to a plant with fleshy, wrinkled leaves growing in spokes from a central stem. Purple blossoms nestled in the middle. "The love apple. It induces desire in its . . . victim? Or beneficiary?" He laughed. "In addition, it aids in conception. But, in large doses, it causes stupor, purging, and death. Unfortunately, it can't be mixed with wine, so any seducer can offer wine to his partner, but cannot partake himself--lest his love potion turn into a death potion."
"I thought there was something strange about its root," I said.
"Yes, it looks like a--a phallus," said Olympos. "And supposedly it shrieks when it is pulled up from the earth."
"Like a phallus?" I could not help laughing. "I never heard one shriek."
Olympos actually looked embarrassed, and Ptolemy turned bright red. Then they both burst out laughing.
"It would make a good scene in a Greek comedy," Olympos finally said.
With that, we were all ready to quit the garden. I took one last look at the mandrake, lying there on the ground so innocently, and laughed again.
> That evening I took a quiet supper in my chambers with Charmian, Iras, Ptolemy, and little Caesarion, who was now learning to eat with manners.
"As King someday, you must endure many banquets," I told him, tucking a napkin into the neck of his tunic. Banquets were not the least onerous duty of a monarch. How many ways could oysters be prepared and presented, and how many cries of delight could one give in a lifetime? "Now you recline thus. . . ."
The light was fading, and oil lamps were lit. I felt a sad listlessness, a letdown. In some ways I did feel like an alien here. Rome had changed my view of the world; what had once seemed entirely sufficient and happily self-contained here now seemed isolated and neglected.
But that is nonsense, I thought. It's not neglected at all--thousands of ships pass through our port, and goods from all over the world converge here before continuing their journey. Silk, glass, papyrus, marble, mosaics, drugs, spices, metalwork, rugs, pottery--all are funneled through Alexandria, the greatest trading center in the world.
But still, it seemed quiet. Perhaps it was only that normal life seemed quiet after the steady progression of intrigues, coups, murders, and revolutions that had begun in my eleventh year.
Isn't it a miracle that you are sitting here now, undisputed Queen of an independent Egypt, eating a serene meal? I lectured myself, like a stern teacher to his students. And being able to tell Ptolemy truthfully there would be no poisoned bread at his table? Your country is pacified, content, prosperous. What ruler could ask for more? And who started life with less chance of achieving it?
. . mandrake plant."
A conversation had been going on all the time, and I had not heard a word.
"Why are you talking to yourself?" asked Ptolemy. "I see your lips moving. And you aren't listening!"
"My mind was wandering," I admitted. "I am still on board that ship in many ways."
Charmian cast me a sympathetic look. She knew what I meant, and it did not refer to the waves nor being shaky walking on dry land.
"I should think you'd be glad to be off that smelly old thing!" he retorted. "Now tell them about the mandrake--and about that plant with the fuzzy button flowers that makes you contort up, until you look like a Gordian knot!"
"He was quite taken with the poisonous plants in Olympos's garden," I said. "He ignored the healing ones. And you've made up the part about the Gordian knot--Olympos did not say that!"
"Well, he should have." Ptolemy picked at his food. "All this makes me lose my appetite."
"We have to get the tasters back," I said. Our faithful food-tasters had retired--it was a nerve-racking occupation, and no one did it for very long. After they returned to their hometowns, they usually let their food impulses run wild, eating anything that took their fancy, day or night.
"Yes, my lady," said Iras. "There is much to be done, now that you are back for good."
Back for good. Why did the whole world, even my wonderful realm, feel so desolate to me? All these people gathered here looked to me for strength and shelter, of one sort or another. And I would provide it, I would provide it . . . and may they never know how unsheltered their shelterer truly felt.
After supper, I asked Mardian to come to me. I needed to speak to him alone. When he entered the chamber, I was so pleased to see him, I almost laughed. He had grown stout, as I noted earlier, and soon would look like other eunuchs. I hated to see it, but there was nothing to be done. I could hardly forbid him food or order him to restrict himself. And I guessed that dainties of the table were a way of rewarding himself from the strain of having to carry the weight of the government for two years. At least I could rest assured that he wasn't rewarding himself, like so many ministers, by stealing from my treasury.
"Dear Mardian, I am more grateful than I can say to have a minister like you. Very few rulers can have been so blessed."
He smiled, and his big, square-shaped face lit up. "It is an honor to be given the responsibility, and I shouldered it gladly. However"--he took the seat I indicated--"I am relieved to have you back." He settled down, and arranged the folds of his gown, wiggling his feet in bejeweled sandals. "A new style from Syria," he said. "The merchant had to surrender a pair as part of the customs duty." He smiled wickedly.
They were most opulent. I thought of the austere Roman ones, and suddenly Octavian's built-up ones flashed through my mind. I laughed. "They are very becoming," I said. Mardian had no need of extra-thick soles, for he had grown quite tall. Poor Octavian--to be shorter than an Egyptian eunuch! "And your gown--is the fringe a new style as well?" Fashion never stood still here in the east.
"Oh, it became popular last year," he said. "The fringes are actually reputed to come from Parthia. But of course we don't admit it!"
"I have grown quite out of fashion, like an old tune," I said, with wonder. "I will need to have new clothes."
"That should be an enjoyable task."
"More enjoyable than poring over the reports and summaries, and meeting all the new ambassadors."
"That is what makes you a good queen--you have the fortitude to endure it," said Mardian.
"Mardian, I need to know how my absence was looked on here." I trusted him to be honest with me.
"ln the palace? Why--"
"No, not in the palace. In Alexandria, and in Egypt herself. I know you always have your ear to the ground, and your family is in Memphis. What did people think?"
"They wondered if you were coming back," he said bluntly. "They thought--they feared--you might remain in Rome, that that would be the price, of Egypt's independence."
"What, that Caesar would hold me prisoner?"
He looked horrified. "No, of course not. But that it would take a constant monitoring--and mollifying--of the fickle Senate, which cannot be done from far away."
"And what did they think of my liaison--my marriage--with Caesar?"
He shrugged. "You know Egyptians--Greeks too. They are practical. They were proud that you'd selected a winner, not a loser, in the civil wars."
Yes, it was the Romans who were obsessed with morality. The older peoples of the east had more wisdom. "At least I don't have to contend with that. Mardian, you cannot imagine what it is to live for two years among a people who do nothing but judge, moralize, lecture, and condemn. It's more than the climate that's gray and oppressive there!" Until I had said it, I had not quite realized the weight of that crushing mantle of judgment. Suddenly I felt quite giddy to be out from under it.
"Ugh!" he said, making a face. "Well, now you are back where we understand you. And treasure you. Welcome home!"
Home . . . but why, why, did it feel so odd?
"Thank you, Mardian. I longed for it all the time I was away."
He paused, as if wondering whether to speak further. Finally he did. "I must tell you, though, that now that things have--changed--there are those who will say that your policy was a failure, that your efforts have achieved nothing lasting for Egypt. It all vanished on the Ides of March, and we are back where we were before Caesar even came here. Who can guarantee our independence now?"
"I will guarantee it. I must." But I felt as though I had climbed an enormous mountain range only to find myself not on a fertile plain, but facing another range just as high. A second climb would be almost beyond imagining. And then there was the other thing.
"Mardian, I must tell you of what I discovered on the voyage. I am with child. There will be another 'Caesarion'--a little Caesar."
He raised his eyebrows. "Oh, that will upset the balance of politics once again. How do you manage to affect people, and lands, hundreds of miles away? It's your peculiar magic."
"I doubt that it will change things in Rome. Caesar did not mention Caesarion in his will, and this one will have even less claim."
"Don't be so sure. I would guard Caesarion well. It was all very well to joke with Ptolemy about the poisonous plants, but it's Caesarion whom someone would have a reason to kill."
I felt cold. It was true. Caesar's will
or not, the world knew about his son. And my own father had been illegitimate. The royal bastard, perpetual threat, was not only a stock figure in stories and poems, but he often attained the throne.
Was Octavian capable of murder? He seemed too squeamish and law-abiding. But. . .
"By leaving no Roman heir, Caesar left three--now you say four--contenders for his name. The adopted son, Octavian; his cousin, Marc Antony, the natural successor to his military and political legacy; Caesarion, his natural son by a non-Roman; and now another." He paused. "Of course, he has another heir--the mob, the Roman people. It was they to whom he appealed, they to whom he left his villa and gardens. Don't leave them out of any political calculations. It's they who will decide if Caesar is to be a god, not the Roman Senate."
"I cannot wish that my children inherit any of the mess at Rome. I just wish they could have known their father as they grew up. And I wish I had something of his--besides just this pendant." I held it out to show it to Mardian. "It was a piece of family jewelry. But I wish he had given me something for Caesarion, as well."
"Well, all he will have to do is go into any forum or temple throughout the Roman world, and he'll see a statue of him. They'll make a god out of him, mark my words. Then there'll be busts, and little statues and plaques, available from every hawker and merchant from Ecbatana to Gades!"
Memoirs of Cleopatra (1997) Page 59
