The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  It was well past midnight when he muttered, “That’s all.” The pile of papers on his right side had all been transferred to the left.

  “Where have you decided to go?” I asked quietly.

  “Pontus,” he said. “I cannot return to Rome, leaving an enemy at my back. The east must be made secure.”

  “But you are already in Africa,” I said. The Roman rebel forces were much closer.

  “I always finish pesky side rebellions before turning to the main task at hand,” he said. “That is why I reduced Spain before pursuing Pompey. It looked as if I were going in the wrong direction, but it was by intent. Now I must go to Pontus before returning here. It is almost sixteen hundred miles in the wrong direction.” He stood up and made for the open roof terrace. I came and stood beside him, looking at the Lighthouse belching out its fire and smoke. It still had the power to move me with pride every time I looked at it.

  “You will sail out of this harbor,” I said, voicing the obvious. “When?”

  “In a few days,” he said. “I have decided to leave behind three legions to protect you, under Rufio. There will not arise another Pothinus.”

  “But—that will leave you only one legion to take to Pontus!” No, I could not let him endanger himself so. Better I should take my chances here.

  “Yes, the Sixth,” he said.

  “That is not enough!”

  “It will have to be,” he said.

  “No, not again! It happened once in Alexandria that you were undermanned. Do not repeat it!” Then I remembered something else. “The Sixth Legion is not even up to full strength! There are only a thousand men in it—not even a fourth of its full quota!”

  “Yes, I know,” he said.

  “You push your luck too far!” I cried. “I think you mean to force the goddess Fortune into abandoning you! It is insane to take only a thousand men!”

  “That is my business!” He was starting to show irritation.

  “No, it is my business as well, now!” I resorted to touching my belly.

  “My military campaigns are my business,” he repeated.

  “Why do you tempt fate so?” I begged. “Why do you think you are immune to defeat and misfortune?” I could hear my voice rising, propelled by fear. “I think that fate spares us—spares some of us—for a good long time, to lull us into the trap she means to spring for us. Those she spares the longest, she may have the cruelest ending for.”

  “In that case, there is little I can do to sidestep it,” he said. “Fate will have her way, whether I take one legion or twenty.”

  “Yes, and no.” I knew that if fate wished otherwise, twenty legions would not protect you, but sometimes fate did not care one way or the other, in which case you were better off with your little human preparations.

  “You are confused,” he said, putting his arm around me. “I think it is fatigue that makes you talk so. Come, let us take some rest.” He gently took my shoulders and turned them around.

  Lying beside him in the dark, I found it hard to believe that he would soon be gone, away on another battlefield. He made me feel very safe. For that instant.

  Just before he fell asleep, he said softly, “I think you must go ahead with the ceremony with Ptolemy.”

  The priest was waiting in the small chamber just off the banqueting hall, where Caesar and I had arranged for the vows to be exchanged. Ptolemy, only twelve years old, stood obediently ready to cooperate. He was the last of my five brothers and sisters; all the others had met violent deaths trying to take the throne, except for Arsinoe, who survived only in prison. Caesar planned to send her to Rome to be paraded through the streets in his Triumph. At the time I thought little of it. Now…

  Ptolemy was a pleasant, light-featured boy. He seemed to have none of the guile and viciousness of the others; perhaps it had been scared out of him.

  “O most gracious Caesar,” he said, “most beloved sister, I am pleased to obey you in all things!” He fingered his carnelian and lapis collar nervously.

  “Stand over here,” said Caesar, pointing his finger at a floor mosaic of a hippopotamus. Ptolemy fairly flew across the floor to the spot.

  “And you here,” he said to me, indicating a mosaic crocodile. The entire design was part of a scene of the Nile, which included fish, birds, flowers, and boats. I stood on the crocodile’s snout.

  Olympos, Mardian, Rufio, Charmian, and Iras stood by as witnesses. The priest of Serapis uttered a few sentences that we repeated, and the deed was done. Ptolemy XIV and Cleopatra VII, Father-Loving and Brother-and-Sister-Loving God and Goddess, were united as rulers of Upper and Lower Egypt. Caesar was beaming, and pronounced a Roman benediction. Then we all turned to the feast tables that were prepared and waiting.

  Caesar’s last night had come. In the morning he would sail out of the harbor with his ships and his thousand legionaries.

  “I leave with great reluctance,” he said. “You cannot know with how much.”

  “Your lingering here has caused great comment everywhere,” I admitted. “What stronger proof could there be that you wished to stay?”

  “I take with me many ideas to be transplanted to Rome. I see now what a city should be. Thank you for that.”

  “What do you mean? What would you change at Rome?”

  “Rome is a very primitive place,” he said. “You will see when you come.” He hurried over that, I noticed. “But now that I have seen the wide marble streets, the public buildings, the Library…I would like to copy them. And your calendar is far superior to ours. I will certainly change all that when—”

  “When the wars are over,” I finished for him. “All the more reason not to tempt fate, but to help her.”

  “I will raise reinforcements once I get to Syria,” he said. “You are right.”

  I watched as the last of the warships sailed out of the harbor and off toward the horizon. They grew smaller and smaller, and disappeared. I felt as if my life were departing. I had known him for such a short time, but in that short interval my world had changed forever—like everything he had touched. Neither Gaul nor Rome nor I would ever be the same as before he came. There was no going back; Caesar had remade the world.

  HERE ENDS THE FIRST SCROLL.

  The Second Scroll

  16

  He had gone. I looked all around me, as if awakening from a dream. For what seemed the first time since I had left Alexandria to go upriver for the bull ceremony at Hermonthis, I saw the palace and the city as they were, through the eyes of an adult. I had left almost two years ago. At that time I had known little or nothing about ruling, and even less about what lay beyond our borders. Luck had seen me through—Caesar and I seemed to share that luck. But now more than luck would be needed. I had to rule a once-great nation single-handed, and bind up its wounds.

  At least, I thought, all my efforts can now be directed toward Egypt, and not be squandered on civil wars and palace intrigues. I am given a free hand, but if I fail, I have nothing else to blame. Rufio and his legions will assure that free hand: Caesar’s great gift to me. His greatest, next to the child.

  I went out immediately to inspect the royal area, taking Mardian and Charmian with me. During my Nile journey, Mardian had carefully assessed the damage to the grounds and buildings, and now he acted as a guide to the dismal sights.

  “Here is where—forgive me, Majesty—the soldiers camped out, destroying all the plantings.” He pointed to what had once been a lawn planted with sweet grasses and flowering shrubs.

  It stank. “And I see they have left behind enough fertilizer to ensure new plantings,” I said. “Even the most delicate plant should find all its needs met for some years to come.”

  The Temple of Isis, farther out on the peninsula, seemed to have suffered little damage, perhaps because it was out of range of the rocks and missiles lobbed by the townspeople over the walls of the palace grounds. But the nearer we got to the walls, the more destruction I saw. The stables, the storehouses, the baths,
the cisterns, all were damaged in some way—either the walls had been cracked and broken, or the roofs burnt. One of my favorite trees, a giant sycamore that I had played in all during my childhood, had been burnt to the ground.

  Now, turning to look back at the main palace building, I could see ugly black stains left by firebrands hurled against its sides. My beautiful white palace by the sea! I gave a groan of unhappiness.

  “It will be repaired as soon as you give the word,” said Mardian.

  I was impressed by the inventory he had compiled. Now I would put him in charge of the restorations.

  “Dear mistress, I think you are tiring yourself,” said Charmian, in her husky-sweet voice. “Save the rest of Alexandria for tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I shall go into Alexandria tomorrow to pay homage at the large temple to Isis. Providing it is still standing.”

  “You may rest assured it is,” said Mardian. “One or two of the columns damaged, but other than that—fine.”

  “I must place myself in her hands, for I shall need her help at the hour of childbirth.” I felt a bit unsteady on my feet, a little dizzy. I put out my hand and leaned on Charmian. “This evening,” I said weakly, “I think I would like to consult with Olympos.”

  I waited for him in my most private chamber. As I looked around at the marble-inlaid little tables, the three-legged standing lamp holders, and the footstools, I became aware that each object now seemed to bear Caesar’s imprint in one way or another. Either he had asked a question about it, sat in it, or used it. It is thus that inanimate objects seem to soak up the essence of living things, and later cause pain or pleasure when we merely look at them.

  I was seated in one of the few chairs with a back, and I rested my feet on a stool. I felt very clumsy and tired. Strange, when I was with Caesar I had not paid much attention to the changes in my body, but now I was all too aware of them.

  I knew Olympos would scold me. He had that privilege, as a childhood friend and as someone who was totally, blazingly honest. Sure enough, when he came into the room, his lean, hawklike face was almost frowning.

  “Greetings,” he said. Then, immediately, “Is this all the light there is?” He indicated the floor lamp, which had five wicks in it.

  “We can light others,” I said. There were several more bronze table lamps, filled with oil, ready to light. “I am not sure what it is you need to see.”

  “I can see well enough the main thing!” He looked directly at my stomach. “Oh, dear Cleopatra—why did you do it? I taught you how to prevent it! What happened to the silphion? You were supposed to make it up into Cyrenaic juice that would have prevented this.”

  “I did carry it with me, but I could hardly make it up when I was inside the rug!”

  “You must have had time afterward! Surely you did not go right from the rug into his bed.” He waited for a denial. When I did not give one, he seemed shocked. It is not easy to shock Olympos, and even when he is shocked he usually hides it better. He gave a groan.

  “I cannot expect you to be sympathetic. You did not approve from the beginning,” I said.

  He snorted. “Even so, probably the first time you…after the rug…you could have taken the proper measures then! It was not too late! After all, he is not Zeus, so that he only has to visit a mortal woman once for her to conceive!”

  I could not help laughing. “I do not expect you to understand my decision. You must know that I am content that this has happened; happy is a better word. It was not at all as I had imagined, there in the tent at Gaza. No, it was something completely different, something—”

  Olympos gave another snort. “Save me the mush. It makes me sick.”

  “You just don’t like him.”

  “No, and I never will.”

  “That is honest.”

  “I am glad you appreciate that. Now, as to your questions…what would you wish to know? It seems to me you have no need of my prescriptions or advice!”

  “You have studied with the foremost physicians here in Alexandria, and your training is impeccable. Can you know in advance the day I can expect to give birth?”

  “No. Only within a certain span of days. It varies a great deal.” He came over and put his hand gently on my abdomen, and felt carefully all around the sides as well. “When did you first feel it stir? Usually it is about a hundred and fifty days after that.”

  I could remember exactly. It had been when an enormous stone had been catapulted over into the palace grounds, and it made a sickening explosive sound as it hit a well. My stomach had moved, and I had thought it was in response to the noise. But when it came again a few hours later in a quiet time, I realized it was something else. And that had been just before we heard that Mithridates was at the eastern borders of the country.

  “Late February,” I said.

  “Then it will arrive in late Quintilis, next month.”

  “Quintilis! That is Caesar’s own birth month! What a favorable omen!”

  Olympos looked disgusted. “No doubt the great general will be honored,” he said.

  “He is honored,” I answered. How could Olympos even begin to suspect Caesar’s great delight? “So I have another fifty days or so? It seems a long time to prepare. Will you procure knowledgeable midwives for me? I do not want superstitious old hags, but young women who have been trained well.”

  “What about your own women?”

  “They will be there, of course, but I wish others to be present who have had experience. After all, Charmian and Iras are virgins.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Charmian is hardly very virginal. That voice…it would make even Helen of Troy’s sound grating in comparison.”

  Yes, her voice smoldered and promised great knowledge of man-woman things. “That is true, but she is still a virgin.”

  “Not for long. And not if she follows your example.”

  “It is nowhere a condition of serving me that a woman must be a virgin. This is not Rome; we have no Vestal Virgins here.”

  “Yes, we Greeks and easterners are more realistic. Only the Romans would invent Vestal Virgins, but have as their leader someone like Julius Caesar! I love his remark, when divorcing his third wife, Pompeia, that ‘Caesar’s wife must be above suspicion.’ What about his friends’ wives, whenever he was in Rome?”

  “I think you should stop before you say something you cannot retract.”

  “So he is to come between us! It is always thus. Rulers say they wish their friends to treat them as always, but sooner or later they turn imperial on you.”

  “I am not turning imperial, but responding as any woman would to slander about the father of her child. I do not wish to demean him by listening to it, nor myself by considering it, nor you by allowing you to speak in such a manner.”

  “So you will silence the truth!” His voice was getting pompous.

  “I will not silence it. But neither will I belabor it.” I looked over at his face, still scowling. “Olympos, I treasure your friendship. As a ruler, I am blessed to have such a friend as you. I know Caesar has…been with many women. I do not delude myself about his past. But I see no need to torture myself about it. I look to my future with Caesar, not to his past.”

  “The past predicts the future,” he said stubbornly.

  “Not always,” I said. “I have a more optimistic view of the world.”

  The next morning, very early, I made myself ready to visit the Great Shrine of Isis at the Serapion. I wished to go as any other supplicant, for Isis is the protector of all women, and it was as a woman and not as a queen that I sought her blessings and help. I would have to go through childbirth like any other woman; my baby would be born the same way. Like any ordinary woman whose husband was a soldier or a sailor, I loved a man who had gone far away and would be in danger. I came before you, Isis, my Mother, my succor and hope, as the humblest petitioner.

  I robed myself in dark blue linen, and made sure I had a cloak to hide my shape. I also had a cowl that I could pull over my
head. I wished no one to recognize me. I took up a round stone jar with an offering of goat milk, and drew a veil over my face.

  The sun was only just rising as I left my litter at the foot of the hill of the Serapion and mounted the stairs slowly. The climb left me out of breath, with my ever-growing burden, but when I reached the summit of the hill I was rewarded with a glimpse of the sea at daybreak, and all of Alexandria glowing gold in the new light. Behind me, at a discreet distance, came Iras.

  I prayed I would not be too late. They had already opened the temple doors with incense—I could smell its pungent sweetness. I stopped to wash my hands and face with the ceremonial water in its bronze vessel at the entrance, to purify myself. As I made my way into the vast, shadowed building, toward the shrine of Isis, I saw that the white-robed priests were only just sprinkling the sacred Nile water at the entrance. Behind them, in a line, were the acolytes, chanting the morning hymn.

  “Arise, Mistress of the Two Lands of Egypt, Mistress of Heaven, Mistress of the House of Life….’ ”

  The deep, sonorous tones of the voices rose and fell like the Nile itself. The shaved heads of the priests and acolytes were like smooth, pale stones in the dim light. Swaying, they walked slowly toward the pedestal where the veiled statue of Isis stood, and then prostrated themselves at its base.

  At length the chief priest rose and approached the statue, delicately drawing aside the veil. Reverently he placed necklaces of gold and turquoise around her neck, and a headdress of vulture’s feathers.