"I thank you for warning me," I said.
Three days!
"I am grieved to have to do so, but it seemed crueler for you not to know."
"Yes. I am grateful that you understood that."
Three days!
"If there is anything--"
"Yes. Yes, there is," I said. "Let me write this request to Octavian, and you can take it to him. Please do your best to persuade him to allow it. It would mean so much to me, especially in the circumstances."
With an odd calmness, I went to my writing desk, pulled out paper, sought the words for the simple request. I had so little time. The guards must be misled like Octavian, made to relax their grip on me, grow careless.
Hail, great Imperator Caesar, I beg your divine mercy in allowing me to pour offerings and libations on the tomb of my husband, and to observe the ancient custom of Egypt in serving a funerary feast there. Without it, his spirit cannot rest.
I handed the note to Dolabella, who read it carefully. He nodded. "I shall do all that I can, my lady."
"It is important to me. I cannot leave without it. Surely he will not be so hard-hearted as to deny me. The soldiers can guard me all the while."
But not in the mausoleum. They would avoid going in there, contenting themselves with watching the doors and inspecting the food going in. They would not suspect the danger already inside, waiting.
Let the basket still be there, in the shadows where it had been hidden!
"I will do my best," he said. "This is a mournful task."
"Do not grieve yourself over it. It is I who have brought myself to this. It is not your doing. Your kindness only makes it easier to bear." I reached out and touched his arm. "Now go. Do what I ask."
He nodded, then turned quickly and left.
So little time. I called my friends--for so they were, rather than mere attendants--back into the room. There could be no hiding what was to come-- except from Olympos. I would have to manage him cleverly. (Forgive me, friend!)
"What was it?" asked Mardian, his normally pleasing voice agitated. Behind him came the others.
"Dolabella has been kind enough to inform me that Octavian is shipping me back to Rome for his Triumph."
Do not let them start wailing and protesting! I begged the gods. And my prayer was granted. My companions, levelheaded and strong, just nodded.
"We will make you ready," said Charmian, and we all knew what she meant--all but Olympos.
"Octavian is going by land, as he does not like the sea," I said. But I did. Another sea journey for me, to another destiny. This one I declined to take. "I may well arrive in Rome before him." If news truly traveled on the wind, then it was a certainty.
"When is this to be?" asked Iras.
"In three days' time," I said. I turned to Olympos. "I wish you to return to your wife now. You are the only one of us with a family outside the palace. Please go there. You have done all you can for me--see how I mend?"
"No, I must stay until that ship sets sail!" he insisted.
"No," I said. "Remember your task? It is imperative that you depart now. Distance yourself from us while you can. You already have the completed scrolls--all except this last, which I am finishing, and will finish, before I am taken away. Be sure to come and collect it; it will be with my other things. I will write instructions allowing it, which they will honor. Then fulfill your promise. To Philae, and Meroe. In your own time. You will know the hour."
He grasped my hands in such a tight grip it hurt the bones. "I cannot just walk away, out of the palace, back to the Museion."
I looked deeply into his eyes, and tried to make my command clear. "You must." I paused. "It is over. Do not fail me now."
"Is an ending so simple?" he asked. His voice had faded almost to nothing.
"We must make it so," I said. "Let us not torture ourselves by drawing it out."
He let go of my hands but continued looking, hawklike, at me. Then something in him gave up, yielded, and he leaned forward and embraced me. He kissed my cheek. I felt his to be wet.
"Farewell, my dearest," he said. "I have preserved you safely to this hour. Now--I must give you to the gods."
He pulled away and walked resolutely to the door, his back to me.
"You have done well," I said. "For I have long been moving toward this hour."
He lurched out of the room, as if he was in pain. I heard low arguing between him and the Roman guards, but they had no orders to hold him, and had to let him pass.
When I was absolutely sure that he was gone--forlorn feeling!--I gathered the remaining three around me.
"Listen," I whispered, to thwart any eavesdroppers. "We will carry out our plan tomorrow. I have asked Octavian for permission to visit the mausoleum and perform final rites for Antony. We will dress in our finest garments, and partake of a funeral banquet, in privacy. Do you understand? I will send for my crown and jewels, ask Octavian to lend them. He will not refuse. Then we will be ready to . Depart and make our journey."
"To Rome?" asked Mardian, an ironic twist to his mouth. He spoke loudly enough to be heard, should anyone be listening.
"Yes, we will go meekly to Rome," I said, smiling. "We will all go together."
"Then let us begin our preparations," said Iras.
"Yes, you must help me select my clothes. For the most important occasion of all."
Now I was thankful that Octavian had sent so many gowns to these rooms. I would have a wide choice. Something to occupy me for the passing hours.
Silently Charmian held up each gown, shaking out its folds and letting it hang free. She had just finished folding all of them; the labor to be undone so soon. The sorrow of it, part of the larger sorrow.
How many times had I done this? How many audiences and meetings had I draped myself for? Each of them had seemed pivotal at the time, each of them indeed important, but none had approached this.
Rustles of silk, whispering in all the colors of the sun and the fields: white, primrose, fern, poppy, the blue of the sea around the Lighthouse. Each had brought joy to my heart in its time. But none was right for--this. I needed a singular gown in which to meet Isis at last.
"There." There it was, never yet worn. A green so pure that beside it emeralds were dirty and grass dull. The green of Egypt's fields, the fierce green of her crops under the sun, glowing under the eye of Re. Green seemed the most Egyptian of all colors: her Nile, her crocodiles, her papyrus. And Wadjyt, the cobra goddess of Lower Egypt, whose very name means "the green one."
"I shall wear this one." I reached out and took it from Charmian.
The fine silk was soft in my hands. The neckline was low, square. Perfect. That would allow for a wide gold collar, as in an old tomb painting.
"And your hair, my lady?" asked Iras.
"It will need to go under my royal headdress," I said. "It must be simple."
"Simple is best," she agreed.
"We must send for the finest bathing oils and perfumes," said Charmian. "For your hair must be perfect. Everything must be perfect."
"Octavian will grant whatever we ask," I said. "Let us make the request now, so he has time to send it by tomorrow morning."
As it was growing dark, and the enemy Epaphroditus stepped in to see to the lamps, we greeted him pleasantly. He gave an embarrassed smile and wished us a good evening.
"The supper is on its way," he said. "I trust you will find it tasty."
"There is little I do not find agreeable," I said. "My appetite is not finicky."
He waved the burning stick he used to light the lamps. "That makes it easy," he said. He paused. "As to your requests--I expect an answer soon."
"I realize the Imperator has much to attend to," I assured him.
"He will not neglect this," said Epaphroditus.
The supper finished, the dishes removed, we sat waiting, silent. In the last hours, there is no busywork to make time pass. It was quite dark outside, and a brisk breeze coming in the windows made the lamp
flames dance. I could hear the slapping of the water against the seawall. The harbor was playing tonight, saying, Listen! I am calling! Take your boats, ride upon me! And perhaps the lovers, the friends, the children, all the free citizens of the city, would accept the invitation.
Yes, the city was free. It would endure. And my children would take up the trust I left them, as I had taken my father's. I had done all I could to ensure that. Caesarion . . . where was he? On his way to India?
I had done all I could. Nothing more remained. One son sent away, the others left to obey and appease the victor. Those were the only two routes open to them. Surely one would avail.
We lie down in the darkness, stretching out as if to sleep. Stretching like Nut, the sky goddess, who swallows the sun every night and gives birth to him each morning. I feel the smooth sheet beneath me, for the whole length of the bed.
How close Old Egypt is tonight. Hovering over me like Nut, surrounding me protectively. On our last night, the gods bend down, touch us.
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 ah 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 all
ow 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. Particularly 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.
Memoirs of Cleopatra (1997) Page 144
