For the first time he betrayed an emotion besides detachment. “No, I do not dislike you. It is true, some of the Jews feel slighted that they were excluded from special decrees that favored the Greeks. But certainly Caesar”—he paused to give the name emphasis—“was generous to those he perceived to be his friends in his hour of need.”
“And so was I! And this is another hour of need. Need is not just battles between men, but also battles between men and nature.”
“We were pleased to help Caesar.”
Why did he keep repeating that? His real question must be, Who will be our true ruler, you or Caesar? Obviously they preferred Caesar!
“In helping me, you are showing respect for him.”
He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “How so?”
“Because Caesar himself fought a war to keep me on the throne! It was his wish that I be Queen!”
“And you are the mother of his child.”
How bold of him to say it so bluntly!
“Yes. And that son will follow me as Egypt’s ruler. Of course Caesar will be pleased if you help me…and his son.”
“Have the books brought to my warehouse,” he said abruptly, like a merchant whose price has been met, and who now does not wish to prolong the bargaining in case you change your mind. “I will look at them. I cannot promise to have them back by tomorrow.”
I tried to keep my expression from changing. Tomorrow! I was hoping for seven to ten days. No one would have thought tomorrow possible! Except Caesar…and this Epaphroditus, beauty-of-Aphrodite-in-a-man… I would be served by the best, after all. I need not compromise. The only drawback is that such people spoil you for anyone else, anyone whose talents are merely human.
“I thank you,” I said. “The books will be there at the hour you request.”
As he left the room, his red robe shimmering in the noonday sun, I wondered how he and Mardian would find working together.
Winter came, with its lashing gales of seawater and storms. I celebrated my twenty-third birthday quietly; far more important to me was Caesarion’s six-month birthday on the same day. I had missed him so when we were separated; now I let myself watch him as he crept slowly off his mat and onto the marble floor of my apartments. I wondered what was so fascinating about one’s own baby that a mother can even watch him sleeping and enjoy the experience—but it is true.
The Nile flood had begun ebbing, but the damage was even greater than we had predicted. Thanks to our preparations, and the organized manner of carrying out our plans, the people had fared as well as could be hoped for. The swollen Canopic branch of the Nile near us had flooded Canopus, and the notorious pleasure gardens and drinking pavilions had floated away, perhaps with their patrons in them. They did not need any help to rebuild their bowers of indulgence; somehow that is always the last place deserted and the first place rebuilt.
All was calm; all was in order.
Then came the report. Mardian had brought it to me, one late winter’s morning as I sat watching Caesarion unwinding a large ball of wool, pushing it slowly across the floor, inching after it to examine it solemnly at each roll.
As always, I was pleased to see Mardian. There are some people whose nature has a mysterious effect on one’s own, and in their presence you find your mood always bordering on the joyful. Such was Mardian, with his big square face, his ever-ready quips and penetrating comments.
“A report,” he said, handing it to me. He then took his seat on a large cushion and made a point of turning his entire attention to Caesarion.
It was exactly what I had longed for, waiting anxiously. My agents in Rome had managed to acquire the news of Caesar’s campaign in North Africa, where he still was.
Caesar had crossed over safely, taking only six legions—five of them brand-new recruits—and two thousand horse. Then—evil omens!—he was driven northward by a storm and did not land where he wished, nor with most of his men. And upon reaching the shore, he had stumbled and fallen facedown on the beach.
I heard myself gasp. Mardian looked up with a jerk.
But then, the report went on, he grasped a fistful of sand and cried, “I hold thee, Africa!” He had never been one to heed omens, but he knew others did.
The enemy forces—ten legions strong!—were commanded by Metellus Scipio, and the people had a superstition that a Scipio could never suffer misfortune in Africa, because Scipio Africanus had decisively beaten Hannibal there. Another thing against Caesar. But he had countered it by appointing a Scipio in his own army, an undistinguished fellow of that same family.
All the old partisans of Pompey were gathered together to make their last stand: the two sons of Pompey, Gnaeus and Sextus, as well as the stern, fanatic Republican Cato. Scipio had taken the shocking step of allying himself—actually placing himself under the command of—Juba, the king of Numidia. A Roman serving under a foreign king was considered beyond the pale. Juba contributed war elephants to the contest, as well as cavalry and four legions. The total cavalry at the rebels’ command was fifteen thousand.
Because his crossing in winter was unexpected, the enemy had let Caesar make his landing with no interference. But he soon found himself in a position where simply securing enough food was a problem. Despite being so far outnumbered, his instinct was to try to force a battle as soon as possible—
Again I heard my sharp intake of breath, and Mardian looked up at me. Why did he keep staring at me like that, as if waiting for me to get to the horrible part?
“Is he dead?” I burst out. “I cannot bear to sit here and read of all the things leading up to it, and have you waiting to see me read it!”
“No, my lady, he is not dead,” Mardian assured me. “Nor even wounded.”
“Then, pray, stop looking at me so anxiously!” I returned to the report.
Cato warned the army of Pompey to avoid an immediate battle, since they could only grow stronger in time, having all the food depots and shipping routes under their control. Caesar’s horses were already being fed seaweed rinsed in fresh water. Caesar launched a food-foraging expedition that was ambushed by the enemy forces, and only by using a classic military tactic, in which alternate lines of cohorts turned each way so all sides were covered, were they able to escape under cover of darkness back to their camp. The engagement had been a setback—Caesar’s first since Dyrrhachium with Pompey.
And there they sat, waiting for Caesar’s other legions to join them, dug in at Ruspina, on a plateau overlooking the sea.
“So,” I said. “He waits. Nothing has been decided.”
“No,” said Mardian. “Nothing has been decided.”
There were only a few more lines. They said that Caesar had acquired Bocchus and Bogud, the two kings of Mauretania, as African allies to counter Juba. They said he was castigating Scipio publicly for groveling and serving under an African king, Juba, taking orders from him and being fearful of wearing his purple Roman general’s cloak in Juba’s presence. Scipio had countered by saying that Caesar had gone to bed with Eunoe, Bogud’s wife, cuckolding his own ally on the field.
“What?” I cried. Again, Mardian jerked his head up. Now I knew why he had been watching. “Is this true? Is this true about Caesar and Eunoe?” My voice was rising. Control yourself, I told myself.
“I—I—” he stammered.
“I know you can find out! You and your spy system!”
“I—I don’t know for certain, but my initial information says that yes, it is true.”
Caesarion batted the wool ball just then, and it rolled under a table. He crept after it determinedly. The pain I felt just in looking at him I can never describe.
“Another queen,” I finally said. “I see he has acquired a taste for the beds of queens.” I could barely get the words out. I could scarcely even breathe. But I did. And I never raised my voice or even let it tremble.
“You may go now, Mardian,” I finally said. “I would appreciate your finding out exactly what is going on. I know I ca
n always rely on you.” Quickly I stood up and left the room.
I had to be alone. I felt as if I had been hit with a heavy log right in the middle of my stomach. Outside the clouds were racing, chasing one another across the sky, tumbling like demons poured out of a tunnel. If only it were night, so I could close off the curtains and be undisturbed for hours. Curse the daytime, with all its comings and goings and busyness! I walked stiffly into my innermost chamber. Charmian was there. I waved her away, not trusting myself to look at her, for the instant she saw my face or heard me speak, she would know there was something wrong. Then there would have to be talk about it. I did not wish to talk; I wished only to feel.
Here was the room where we had spent so much time. All the furnishings brought back some memory or essence of him. Now each one hurt. So it is when something dies; the very inanimate objects the loved one has touched in passing serve to wound us. What should be a comfort causes us more pain. The very curtains that he had parted when looking out at the harbor—the little table where he had often rested his hand—the mosaic he had admired—the lamp he had lit to study his papers—they all rushed upon me like a gang of thugs, intent on injuring me.
No need to pretend to myself that it was just a rumor. I knew in my heart it was true. He had not changed. Not changed, after all.
It was I who was the fool for hoping he would. Somehow I had thought his time in Egypt had transformed him. But it had not.
Eunoe. What kind of a name was that? It sounded Greek. But she was the wife of a Mauretanian. A Moor? A Berber? Was she old? Young? And what was she even doing with her husband out in the field?
What matter? And what matter even if it is not true? I suddenly asked myself. The sad thing is that I have found it in myself to believe it is true. In that way I have also betrayed him.
I stood beside the windows, watching the tumultuous weather move across the sea. I grabbed handfuls of the curtains and crushed them in my fists. My hands ached for it to be his flesh instead of the filmy curtains. I did not know if I wanted to claw him or caress him. I left the window and sank down on a couch. I was drained. A thick blackness seemed to settle around me like a mantle, cloaking me and weighing me down. I sat very still and closed my eyes. I willed it all to go away. And what may have been minutes or hours went by, but when I opened my eyes again, the knowledge I hated was still there.
In late March a dusty messenger arrived at the palace, announcing that he had traveled all the way from Meroe, beyond the Fifth Cataract in Nubia, to bring urgent news for my ears alone. The palace guards were suspicious of him, and insisted on shackling him with chains before allowing him into my presence. I was sitting at the large marble table that (more memories, but I was used to them now, it had been weeks since I had heard the report from Africa) Caesar had used to spread out his maps. Now I used it whenever I had large numbers of books to consult; this morning I had been looking at the rolls of figures that Epaphroditus had compiled for me. Little by little he had been assuming the duties of a finance minister, protesting all the while that he was utterly uninterested in doing so. Men! How could I believe anything they said?
Briskly I pushed aside the figures. Life had become monotonous, and always in the midst of the monotony, like a sore that would not quite heal, was the fear that bad news would come from the African front, shattering the monotony with tragedy.
Yes, tragedy. For the death or defeat of Caesar would be nothing less than that for me. I still loved him, and always would. I knew that now, and I accepted it, just as I accepted my height or the color of my eyes. It was a given, apparently never to be shaken. A source of joy and immense pain.
“Well, let the man approach the throne and speak his piece,” I said, although I was not seated on a throne.
The high doors swung open on their oiled bronze hinges, and a tall Nubian entered the room, straight and with long strides despite the chains weighing him down. He was flanked by a pair of my household guards.
“Most gracious Majesty Queen Cleopatra, I am the emissary of the exalted and mighty Kandake Amanishakheto of the Kingdom of Meroe. Greetings!”
The man’s voice boomed out like a warrior’s.
“Unchain him!” I commanded. “I would not be pleased to hear that my messengers were bound! Neither will the Kandake.”
I knew that kandake was their word for queen. Meroitic was similar in some ways to Egyptian, and to Ethiopian, which I spoke. I had always had great curiosity about Meroe, our sister kingdom to the south.
Hastily they bent and unlocked the chains. The messenger stepped out of them and flung them off like a crane flinging water from its back. He seemed to grow even taller.
“I have come, O Majesty, many, many days’ journey on the Nile. I have traversed the Five Cataracts, and passed from the land of the ostrich and hippopotamus and lion down to this city of the sea,” he said. His Egyptian was heavily accented. It was hard for me to understand all his words. “I bring gifts of gold, ivory, and leopard skins.”
“For which your land is renowned,” I said.
“The box was taken from me to be searched,” he said. “It will be presented when your servants have inspected it. But I have a message which only you may hear. These attendants must leave.”
This was not wise. I must not be left alone with this unknown man on such a pretext. “One of the guards must stay,” I insisted. “And I will send for my senior minister, Mardian.”
“No. The Kandake said no one.”
“Then I cannot hear her message. You have come all this way for nothing. My minister is to be trusted. And a guard must always be present.”
He stood for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Clearly he revered every word his queen said, and was as obedient thousands of miles away as he was in her presence—the sort of servant I would treasure.
“Speak to me in Ethiopian,” I said. “Do you know that tongue? The guard and my minister cannot understand it.”
The man’s face broadened in a wide smile. He nodded enthusiastically. “Very well, Your Majesty,” he said.
I had a little trouble following him, but could understand the main thrust of his speech.
“What is this urgent message?” I asked.
“It is this: A man claiming to be Ptolemy XIII has been captured in Meroe.”
I was stunned. “What?” was all I could manage to say.
“He is about seventeen years of age, almost a grown man. He was gathering an army when the Kandake’s soldiers captured him. He demanded to be taken for an audience with her, and in her presence he swore he was your brother, the true ruler of Egypt, who had escaped after the battle with Caesar’s forces and made his way into Nubia. He was most persuasive. My Kandake wishes to know your instructions. We are holding him in confinement.”
An impostor! I had seen my poor dead brother, seen him collapsed in his golden armor, little trickles of swamp water running out his nostrils. He was entombed right here in Alexandria, in the mausoleum of the Ptolemies.
“Execute him!” I said. What other instructions could there be?
“I am afraid we cannot do that, until he has been positively identified.”
“Who knows who he is? Does it matter? He is not my brother, of that I am sure. He deserves death for pretending he is.”
“Then you must come and look him in the face and say he is a pretender.”
“What? Journey to Nubia? Let him make the journey! Send him here and I will deal with him,” I said.
“We cannot,” he said. “Surely you can see why. It is too dangerous; he might make his escape somewhere along the route. No matter how carefully we had him guarded, there would doubtless be opportunities on the way. The moment the word got out—the moment there was a rumor—supporters would appear. It is always thus. People rally to any cause, just to have something to occupy them. That is why I did not wish anyone in Alexandria to hear of this. The merest whisper must not reach any ears. Are you sure they do not understand Ethiopian?” He looke
d nervously over at the one remaining guard and at Mardian, who had arrived and was standing at the far end of the table, his eyes fastened on us.
“I swear it,” I assured him.
“Will you accompany me back?” he said. “I am prepared to wait. But I urge you to come as soon as possible. The less time between his capture and his…settlement…the better.”
He was right. Every day that passed, with the self-styled Ptolemy XIII talking—to his guards, to his fellow prisoners—the more dangerous he became.
“Very well,” I groaned. “I can see that I have no choice. But I must think of a reason why I suddenly must undertake this journey, which no Pharaoh and no Ptolemy ever has. It is not like deciding to visit Canopus!” I realized I had to think of it before this interview ended, so I could pretend it was part of the man’s message. Mardian was staring at me, clearly trying to fathom what was happening.
Why would I have to go to Meroe? What possible reason? Think! I told myself. To see something for myself…what could it be? The trade routes to India? A lost city? Should I take a scientific expedition? I could take geographers and mathematicians from the Museion, those who were always concocting experiments to measure the earth’s curve. But why would I need to go? Surely the scientists could go by themselves. And so could the merchants who might be interested in the trade route. And the elephant and leopard hunters. None of these excuses would serve.
Mardian was watching me as the moments of silence passed. When I spoke, I would have to give the reason for this visit—the public reason. Privately I would be able to tell Mardian the real reason. But now, spies might be in the outer chamber.
“My sister queen, the renowned Kandake Amanishakheto, has extended her hand in friendship to me,” I finally said. “I wish to go in person to her fabulous court in Nubia and see what none of my ancestors has ever beheld. On the way I will make treaties and trading agreements with the tribes along the Nile. Let me open a new frontier, in a new direction, for Ptolemaic Egypt. Perhaps our future lies southward, toward Africa, rather than eastward to Asia or westward to Gaul. Rome has taken most of Asia and all of Gaul. Our way is blocked. What my ancestors held in those regions I cannot hope to regain. But other lands, other horizons beckon. Can I do less than see for myself?”
The Memoirs of Cleopatra Page 28