by Emily Hahn
In addition, we must not forget that failing the civil war and Caesar, she was destined to share her bed with a brother seven years younger than herself. She grew up fitted for a life of which we can appreciate little or nothing. How then can we pretend to understand Cleopatra enough to praise or blame her? Praise her if you wish for qualities we recognize and admire, for cleverness and courage, but let us not try to judge her sex morals. If we do that we must condemn not only Cleopatra but all the ancients. Let’s repeat it: they were very unpleasant characters.
Caesar, not being handicapped by our code, probably understood Cleopatra well enough, and liked her very much. Anyway, he promptly espoused her cause. Her claim to half the throne was water-tight, as he pointed out to the disgruntled young Ptolemy, her reluctant partner. Because the consul willed it, the sisters and brother settled down to dwell together in the palace like the big happy family they were not. Naturally, this peace did not last long. Potheinos, still intriguing for Ptolemy, stirred up the people outside to rebel, and for several weeks the palace was in a state of siege.
The war made little or no difference to Caesar and his young queen. They presided at banquets and other merrymakings quite as if a rebellion were not going on at all. Caesar had plenty of leisure to spare for a honeymoon, and as word had just come from Rome that he had been promoted to dictator he must have felt all the more like celebrating. Strategically, a long stay in Alexandria, consolidating his position with Cleopatra, was a good thing for his career, for it meant he had Egypt’s enormous wealth and power at his disposal. Caesar was a shrewd man; the portrait painted by his enemies of a lazy debauchee who neglected Rome merely to indulge in sensual pastimes was no more accurate than one would expect of politicians.
Nor was he as blind as he pretended to the dangers of the situation. Despite the gay parties, the canny Roman kept an eye on Ptolemy and Potheinos. The minute he got the chance he shoved the boy out of the palace, advising him to join and lead his own troops against Cleopatra, since he felt so strongly about it. Just as Ptolemy’s elder sister had hoped, he was soon killed in battle. The tiresome Potheinos was done away with quietly and tactfully at a banquet. As for Princess Arsinoë, she ran away and joined Cleopatra’s enemies. At the end of the siege she was captured and became officially what she had long been in fact, a prisoner of state. Scarcely a model family group, one reflects, nor does Caesar appear to have behaved to the children like Santa Claus. The protests of historical writers that the dictator was above reproach and that Cleopatra was merely a designing little woman who behaved like a village drab, quite gratuitously accusing that greathearted man of fathering the baby she now bore, fall strangely on ears which have already heard this much of the story.
“He didn’t!” cry Caesar’s champions stoutly. “He never had a thing to do with that woman. Julius Caesar wouldn’t do a thing like that. Caesarion? He wasn’t Caesar’s son. Never mind what she said; a woman like Cleopatra would say anything. She was a loose woman.”
No matter what his fans may say, Caesar did not deny paternity of the child, nor object to its being named “Little Caesar.” He had probably already gone through a form of marriage with Cleopatra. The Egyptians recognized him as a ruler with as much right to the title as any Ptolemy’s. It is true that he was already married, and that his Roman wife, Calpurnia, awaited him at home. But Calpurnia herself was his third wife. Divorce in Rome was simple, and Caesar, I repeat, was not a present-day Englishman in his habits. He was a much-divorced man, he was an experienced co-respondent, and Rome was a long way off.
However, all holidays, all honeymoons, come to an end. After nearly a year’s stay in Egypt, the dictator returned to Rome. There he found a large accumulation of things to do, among which was a punitive expedition to North Africa. In Mauretania he had an affair with Eunoë, the Queen, which nobody, not even Eunoë’s husband, seems to have resented very much. The person who might well have resented it fiercely was Cleopatra, the young mother, but she, like Eunoë’s husband, seems to have borne no grudge. Men were like that, and her mind was set on other matters. Caesarion was a newly born baby, but Cleopatra of the Ptolemies saw him as king of the world. Her plans were ready and waiting.
As soon as he was a year old, Cleopatra set out for Rome. She arrived in time to witness Caesar’s triumph, in the procession of which her sister Princess Arsinoë, according to the unpleasant custom of the time, was forced to march through the city in chains. The Roman populace was allegedly shocked that Caesar should have treated in this manner a girl who was practically his sister-in-law. They were also said to be shocked that Cleopatra should have approved what he did. But the Roman people, whatever their other qualities, were not notoriously tenderhearted, and it is not on record that anyone stayed at home and missed the triumph out of principle. Very likely what the Romans really felt was a loyal indignation on Calpurnia’s behalf that Cleopatra should have come to Rome at all.
Cleopatra, it is scarcely necessary to say, didn’t care what the Romans thought. A queen who had ignored rebellion in her own city could not be expected to turn sensitive about the opinion of a lot of Italian foreigners. She moved into a villa on the Tiber and settled down, living there in apparent contentment for two years.
Two years is a long time for a sovereign to stay away from home, but Cleopatra had her reasons, and again I do not think they were sentimental ones. She wanted Caesar to make Caesarion his legal heir. Perhaps she played a part, too, in Caesar’s slowly growing desire to assume the crown. Caesarion as the baby son of a dictator would not stand much chance of stepping into office, a Republican government being run, presumably, by people who were selected, not born to office. But Caesarion as son of a king, or an emperor, would be assured of his position. Even Rome might respect the hereditary rights of a prince, no matter how young. Cleopatra’s reasoning and misunderstanding of Roman mentality might be full of holes, but that was probably the way her mind worked. It was the way she had been brought up.
Caesar, however, would not agree. He clung to his original idea of handing over his office to his nephew Octavian. He made a will to that effect, and refused to change it. No doubt he felt that Egypt should suffice for Caesarion, and that Octavian as a Roman would be more likely to know what was good for Rome.
Then he was assassinated, and there was Cleopatra, without her august protector, alone with her little son in a city of hostile foreigners.
Unexpectedly, one of them was not hostile after all. This was a man named Mark Antony, one of Caesar’s most loyal followers, who stepped to the fore after the murder and cleverly whipped up public hatred against the conspirators. Just which way the tide would finally settle down to flowing was difficult to say, but in the meantime Antony was building up a name for himself. One day in the Senate he made a statement which must have been gratifying to Cleopatra, declaring that the martyred Caesar had himself recognized Caesarion as his rightful son. Such a remark, annoying as it was to the senators, frightened and enraged Octavian even more.
Octavian and Antony were sworn enemies, though each was committed against the same two men, Brutus and Cassius, leaders of the conspiracy against Caesar. These men and their assistants had been hastily got out of Rome until things should settle down. Until they were able to gather their forces and attempt to come back, it was a question which of the two remaining on the battlefield would come out ahead, but Cleopatra could not afford to wait and see, nor was she particularly interested. She fled with Caesarion back to Egypt, reassured yet hastened on her way by the anger which Antony had stirred up in the city when he named the baby Caesar’s heir. Her feelings about her new friend must have been mixed.
Mark Antony’s character has tempted many a novelist and playwright to use him as a hero, and it is easy to understand why this should be. He is a familiar type. He sounds just the sort of man we have all known in our time, hearty and good-natured, brave and reasonably loyal, good-looking in a big healthy way, and, though far from stupid, not subtly clever. Anto
ny’s cunning and craft were just a bit ahead of the mob’s. When young and self-confident he must have been lovable. Certainly his soldiers loved him. He possessed many qualities of a leader, not least of which was his talent for oratory.
His portrait bust shows a big man, large-featured, with very curly hair. One can imagine his prototype nowadays going a long way on charm. I see him as the favorite boarder in a lodginghouse where the landlady saves him titbits and does his laundry and mending free of charge, or a swaggering strike leader in some car factory, or perhaps a lifesaver and swimming instructor at a public beach, surrounded by admiring girls and little boys. The one thing I cannot imagine is Mark Antony as ruler of the entire Western world; yet that is what he was for a space.
He achieved his eminence by temporarily dropping his quarrel with Octavian. It had become evident to him that without someone like Caesarion or Octavian to connect with, he had no good excuse for shouldering himself to the top. Which star should he hitch his wagon to? One can easily imagine him weighing them up and deciding that Octavian as a grown man, named in the will, was far more likely to succeed than the little Caesarion. Antony dropped the vexed subject of Caesarion and made an alliance with Octavian.
A third man, named Lepidus, having been brought into the partnership, they called themselves the triumvirate and briskly took hold of Rome’s affairs. It was high time someone did, for the Senate had been floundering ever since the assassination, and Brutus and Cassius were on their way back to make their long-expected attack. Antony led out an army and defeated the enemy at Philippi, and at that battle both Brutus and Cassius were killed. “Now,” said the triumvirate, “we must consolidate.”
First of all they must collect funds from Egypt. Whenever Rome needed money she turned toward Egypt. So Antony set out for the East, by way of Greece and Asia Minor, to see what could be done about broaching the treasure cask once again. At Tarsus he sent word to Cleopatra, requesting that she come that far to meet him for discussions. He hinted at a threat, in preparation for his demands. Had not Cleopatra been suspected of aiding and abetting the conspirators who killed Caesar?
Possibly she had, since everyone of prominence in Rome was always suspected of a part in every conspiracy. Cleopatra wasted no time in indignant denials: that sort of thing was routine, and could be attended to when she encountered Mark Antony in person. After all, he was the man who had stood up for her son’s rights in the Senate, though now he followed the hateful Octavian. There were possibilities in the situation, so Cleopatra made her preparations and set sail for Tarsus.
The meeting between these two people was not without its humorous side. Deliberate pomposity is always funny to modern eyes, but it played a large part in pageantry among the ancient kings, and Cleopatra took very seriously her plan to overawe Antony. He on his part was determined to impress the Queen with his power and importance. The two proceeded at stately measure to the game of face-winning.
When Cleopatra’s fleet sailed up the Cydnus, Antony arranged himself in state in the market place to receive her. He waited a long time. The royal ships came to anchor near the opposite bank, the sun passed its zenith, unofficial reporters brought news that the Egyptian’s slaves seemed very busy aboard, but nobody landed. Finally the idle market-place crowd deserted the waiting Romans and drifted down to the riverside to watch the more interesting newcomers. Antony was left like a wallflower. At last he swallowed his pride and sent an invitation to Cleopatra to come to dinner.
The messenger returned with a counter-invitation from the Queen, to come aboard ship as her guest.
Antony accepting, the first of that famous series of banquets was duly arranged. The royal galley was brought across the river to fetch him. “Across the water, in which the last light of the sunset was reflected, the royal galley was rowed by banks of silver-mounted oars, the great purple sails hanging idly in the still air of evening. The vessel was steered by two oar-like rudders, controlled by helmsmen who stood in the stern of the ship under a shelter constructed in the form of an enormous elephant’s head of shining gold, the trunk raised aloft. Around the helmsmen a number of beautiful slave-women were grouped in the guise of sea-nymphs and graces; and near them a company of musicians played a melody upon their flutes, pipes, and harps, for which the slow-moving oars seemed to beat the time. Cleopatra herself, decked in the loose, shimmering robes of the goddess Venus, lay under an awning bespangled with gold, while boys dressed as Cupids stood on either side of her couch, fanning her with the coloured ostrich plumes of the Egyptian court. Before the royal canopy brazen censers stood upon delicate pedestals, sending forth fragrant clouds of exquisitely prepared Egyptian incense, the marvellous odour of which was wafted to the shore ere yet the vessel had come to its moorings.”* Cecil de Mille himself could have done no more.
Antony, his retinue, and the local men of importance who were fellow guests were staggered. Rome in all its glory had never been like this. But Cleopatra was not done with her showing off, which she must have enjoyed hugely. After dinner Antony expressed his wondering admiration of the ship’s banqueting saloon, where the couches and walls were festooned with rich embroideries and the goblets and dishes were made of jeweled gold. The Queen said in offhand tones:
“It’s not worth talking about. Do take all this as a gift.” Then she ordered the whole array, the plate and silk and furniture, to be packed up and taken ashore to Antony’s quarters. It was a party favor well worth bringing home.
On the second evening Cleopatra entertained again. This time every one of her guests was given a souvenir. Each of the important men took home with him the couch and the plate he had used, as well as a litter complete with slaves to carry it and torch-bearers to walk before. The less important guests had to be content with gifts of mere horses, outfitted in gold.
So it went, the whole time the Queen remained in Tarsus. Antony did his best to keep up appearances for his side. When he was host he managed to spend a fortune, but he never outdid the Queen. Still, he enjoyed trying. He loved to be prodigal; he was a generous, extravagant man with a large appetite for sensuous pleasure, and this political game was much to his taste. Thus both competitors came out ahead. Antony had a wonderful time, and Cleopatra succeeded in her design of showing the Roman that Egypt’s wealth was to be respected and desired. It is no wonder that Antony, when he thought it over later in Rome, wondered why he should not desert the triumvirate and join Cleopatra for good. It would be wonderful to defeat Octavian once and for all. He could use Caesarion as a rival heir to Julius Caesar’s power, as once before he had meant to do.
There was another temptation to leave Rome: Antony’s wife Fulvia lived there. We know all about the excellence of Roman matrons, and Fulvia must have had her share of good qualities. It has always been this writer’s opinion, however, that the typical Roman matron, although a good mother and an excellent manager, might possibly have been just a bit forbidding. At any rate, Fulvia was. She treated Antony rather in the manner of a combination sergeant major and stern great-aunt. A man not easily squashed, he did his best to assert himself against Fulvia’s granite personality; he would hide in dark corners of the house and jump out at her, yelling “Boo!” But life with Fulvia could never have been really jolly or stimulating, whereas Cleopatra was beautiful, witty, brilliant and subtle. Also rich and powerful.
In 41 B.C., without committing himself, Mark Antony went to Alexandria.
At this point in Cleopatra’s life there comes a happy moment for the moralists who judge her from their own century with such puzzling results. Mark Antony lived with the Queen, loved her, and gave her every hope of carrying on her early plans for her son. Then, six months before she was brought to childbed, he left her.
He had several good reasons. News arrived that Fulvia and the leaders of his faction had been forced to flee from Rome, owing to an outbreak of the smoldering quarrel with Octavian. This meant war. Antony was urgently needed. Whatever he may have promised Cleopatra and himself for th
e future—marriage and world conquest—would have to wait. Antony went to Greece and rejoined his Roman wife; in the space of a few months Fulvia had died, Antony had again made peace with Octavian, the uneasy triangle was re-established, and Cleopatra forgotten. Antony was named master of the eastern provinces and promised to leave Italy to Octavian. As an earnest of their friendship, the two men arranged a marriage for the widower, Octavian giving his sister Octavia to his erstwhile foe. They were married at the time Cleopatra, in Egypt, was giving birth to twins, a boy and a girl.
Seldom has queen been so snubbed. Whatever her sentiments toward Antony, whether or not she had been actuated by love as well as policy, Cleopatra must have been bitterly angry when she heard of his marriage to Octavia. Perhaps the great blustering boy signed his death warrant by that act, though before the tragic end he was to be reconciled with his Egyptian Queen.
Four years passed. Octavia bore a son to her husband, and in Alexandria Cleopatra bided her time. Success had gone to Mark Antony’s head. He was drinking more than his judgment could support, and dreams of further glory heated his imagination. In time he remembered the wealth of Egypt and reflected on how useful it could be now for his purpose. Why should he not consolidate the East into as great an empire as Octavian’s? Why not make it even greater? Why not, in fact, pick up his alliance with Cleopatra where he had dropped it, and conquer Octavian? Abruptly, Antony sent Octavia home. Then he met his deserted royal mistress at Antioch, and they talked it over. A fresh alliance was formed. Cleopatra dissembled and showed no resentment. Antony had perjured himself many times over, but he was Antony, and as such was still Caesarion’s best chance.