The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  I stood on the quay of the royal harbor. The wind was whipping the traveling cloak that I had draped over my shoulders, and little waves were dancing in the harbor, showing underbellies of white. Clouds raced across the sky; it was a good day to set sail.

  The ship—a fast galley—rode the waves, pulling at its ropes like a child impatient to run away. Caesarion was stabbing his finger at the gulls flying overhead, shrieking with excitement. It was time to be off.

  I mounted the gangplank and went aboard. All of Alexandria was spread out before me, extending far to the left and right, its white buildings more lovely and precious than any ivory. My city! My nation! I had never felt prouder or more protective of it.

  I go to secure you, I thought. Alexandria, I go to make sure you are free forever.

  I turned to the captain, who was standing behind me on the deck.

  “Cast off,” I said. “I am ready. Make for Rome.”

  HERE ENDS THE SECOND SCROLL.

  The Third Scroll

  21

  The sea rolled before me, the flat horizon opening toward lands unseen. Behind me I saw, for the first time, what sailors approaching Alexandria beheld: upon the low, featureless coastline, the tall Lighthouse beckoning; and behind it, the gleaming white buildings of the city, spotted here and there with the bright colors of flowering vines climbing over the walls. I had never left that coastline, and now I was seeing it as strangers do.

  The color of the open ocean was darker and more solid than that of the harbor or river. I felt a thrill of excitement at the prospect of my voyage, of venturing out over all this deep, heaving water. We were going to follow the same direct route as the large, grain-transporting merchantmen, rather than hugging the coastline like a timid fishing boat. It was much faster, but it was also more hazardous. The route from Alexandria to Rome lay on a gigantic northwest slant of over twelve hundred miles, if you could fly like a stork. If you could not pass through the Strait of Messina—the narrow stretch between Sicily and Italy that at one treacherous point shrinks to about two miles, bounded by tidal currents and rocks and whirlpools—then you were obliged to go the long way around Sicily, making the journey even longer. The fastest time ever made on a journey from the Strait of Messina to Alexandria was six days, but going the other way it was slower, owing to the prevailing winds and currents. I prayed we would not take a great long time to reach our destination; although I was uneasy about what I would find when I arrived in Rome, neither did I wish to postpone it. My courage is highest when I can go to action; inaction saps my resolve.

  My ship was an oared galley, not a warship by any means, but armed with a small number of soldiers. It was speed I had wanted for this journey, but also sufficient size to permit sailing on rough or open waters. I had not thought to need the protection of a warship. Pompey, after all, had put down the pirates.

  Some twenty years earlier, Pompey had been dispatched by the Roman Senate to clear the Mediterranean of pirates, which were infesting the sea from one end to the other. Many high-ranking people—including Caesar himself—had been taken captive by them, and shipping was unsafe. Pompey had fulfilled his mandate, and swept the seas clear of them, by assembling a full-scale navy against them. Since then the goods had flowed freely and sailors had been unhampered. There were still undoubtedly places where they lurked, for no vermin is ever completely eradicated—rats scurry back to the cleanest-swept pantry. But their numbers were small now, and their favorite haunts, the Cilician and Dalmatian coasts, were far to the east. I did not know then that Sardinia and Sicily were their western playgrounds.

  The ship dipped and rose, like a huge sea beast. The long, rolling motion felt good, as if I were striding over all the earth. It was now, as I stood upon the deck, feeling the first slap of salt spray on my cheeks, that I began to think seriously of rebuilding the Egyptian fleet.

  It had fallen low since most of it had been lost in the Alexandrian War. Many of the ships had been burnt in the harbor because my brother had had control of them. I would have to import long timbers from Syria, but that should not prove difficult. Syria was a Roman province, and would have to obey Caesar. Yes, it was time for the Egyptian navy to be resurrected.

  Now that we were under way, the captain came to stand beside me on the deck. We were headed almost due west, and the going was slow. Our big, square sail was of little use, as the prevailing wind was from the west; the rowers were hard at work, their oars dipping rhythmically in and out of the bright blue water. Overhead the sky was clear, the clouds passing to the east.

  “This is the fastest route, is it not?” I asked.

  “Yes, it is as straight as a Roman road,” he said. “The problem is the winds at this time of year. They blow in exactly the wrong direction. And the expanse of water is so great that there is a natural limitation on the speed of the rowers. This galley has four men to each oar, but they cannot row without rest for days on end.”

  Because I had decided to enter Rome with little fanfare, and to go quietly to my place of residence, I had selected a modest ship. Now I wondered if that had been a mistake.

  “A larger ship is not necessarily faster,” said the captain, as if he had read my mind. “Their heavy timbers require much more wind and muscle to move them. That is why the pirates, the best sailors in the world, keep their vessels relatively light and small. No, my lady, this is the best speed we can hope for.”

  Disappointment and anxiety flooded me. Travel was so slow!

  A private cabin had been outfitted for me and my attendants inside the deckhouse where the captain and officers would retire. Although they had painted it in bright colors, I could see by the paint already peeling that it would be a damp journey. They had built a bed bolted to the floor, and a smaller one for Caesarion, with guardrails. Charmian was to sleep on a pallet on the floor, which was rolled up during the day. Our chests of personal belongings were chained to rings on the floor and walls.

  Little Ptolemy XIV, my consort, had a separate room of his own. I had brought him along because he had been so curious about Rome, and besides, seeing what had happened to Arsinoe would be a warning to him, although he was a sweet child so far. Also, leaving him behind might prove a temptation to enemies to use him as a figurehead and start another dreary round of civil war—the last thing I needed.

  I went in to see what Caesarion was doing; he was playing with a bag filled with lentils, which one of the sailors had given him. While I watched him, his fingers released the bag and he dozed off to sleep.

  Poor child! I thought. This will be a long journey.

  The next morning I could barely make out a golden smudge on the far horizon; it was the coast of North Africa, the desert that lay to the west of Egypt. Gradually it receded from sight and we were alone in open water, the sea stretching endlessly on all sides.

  On the eighth day a squall came up; the skies blackened and released torrents of rain. But in its wake came a gratifying change in the wind’s direction: it swung around and turned into an easterly Levanter, blowing us where we wished to go. Up went the sail to harness it.

  Now we seemed to be flying—for as long as the wind continued. We reached that point in the sea where we were opposite Crete, then Greece; and then we were swept out into the greatest stretch of open sea on our entire voyage.

  Charmian was not faring well on this voyage; for the first few days she had been grievously seasick. Now, pale and shaky, she emerged from the cabin and stood beside me.

  “How much longer will we be on this wretched sea?” she moaned.

  “I’ll put you on a camel for the return journey,” I said. “You can go the long way round—by the time you reach Alexandria we shall both be old. Caesarion will have made me a grandmother.”

  “I don’t care to waste my youth on a caravan journey,” she said. “But I feel as if this journey has already made me old.”

  Strange, but it had had the opposite effect on me: I found the sea air invigorating, and the unfamiliar sme
lls and sounds I encountered every day fascinated me. There was, first of all, the pervading sea-salt odor, and the smell of the wind, bringing with it the faintest tang of the land it had blown over. There was the rich smell of the fresh-caught fish—so different from those sold in markets—and the musty dampness of the soaked ropes. The tar and resin found everywhere on board gave off a warm, raisinlike aroma that grew stronger as the sun rose.

  As for the sounds, I loved the slap-slap-slap of the water against the hull of the ship; it lulled me to sleep. The creaking of the rigging and the whoosh of the sail as it filled and deflated was like nothing else. How ordinary the sounds of street and market were by comparison.

  Water had lost its terror for me, for which I was deeply grateful. First I had ventured the harbor, then the Nile, now the open sea—I was cured of my fear, thanks be to all the gods!

  “You will not even remember the misery as soon as you set foot in Rome,” I assured her. “You will recover readily enough in Caesar’s villa.”

  I hoped it was true. I was beginning to lose count of how many days we had been traveling. Every night I moved a bead on a bracelet to keep track. We were sailing even at night, since it was impossible to anchor in these deep waters. For some days the moon had been dark, making it easier to see the stars, but nothing else.

  To my disappointment, the captain had decided to take the long way around Sicily.

  “If this Levanter keeps blowing, it will be much safer, even if longer,” he said. “The Strait of Messina is best approached from the opposite side, with a north wind at your back. That way you encounter the whirlpool and the rock at the outset, when you have the most maneuvering room.”

  “Scylla and Charybdis,” I said. “Are they as fearsome as legend says?”

  “Indeed they are,” he said. “The rock—Scylla—is almost impossible to avoid if you are trying to escape the whirlpool, Charybdis. Of course the whirlpool is not there all the time, only when violent water boils up at the tide changes, four times a day.”

  “Have you ever seen her seize a ship?”

  “Yes. I watched from land as a fishing boat got pulled down into her maws. The water swirls—a big, oily-looking circle—and anything nearby gets drawn into the circle. Then, once in it—the boat spins faster and faster. I saw it break up, saw its timbers come apart where they had been fastened, and the fisherman was thrown out. He clung to a piece of timber, but he disappeared right into the center of the funnel—it has an indentation that’s dark and sucking. The pieces of the boat followed him. At the center they were spinning so fast they were just a blur to my eyes; then they disappeared.”

  I shuddered.

  “Charybdis disgorges things, but not the things she swallows,” he said. “The fisherman never returned. But the monster vomited up deformed fish—fish without eyes and with grotesque appendages on their heads. Enormous strands of seaweed erupt from that evil center, like huge sea serpents.” He paused. “So we’ll go the other way, with your permission.”

  “My permission? I am no navigator, no sailor.”

  “Yet you have a feel for the sea, I can tell.”

  Surprising but true. “I will leave the command of the vessel to you,” I assured him.

  Landfall! The mountains of Sicily became visible, their rugged tops shining like a mirage. We steered for her, and the mountains grew slowly clearer. I felt relief flooding through me. We had reached the other side of the Mediterranean.

  Then, as unexpectedly as one of Homer’s gods, the wind shifted quickly to the south—a hot, damp wind, oppressive and heavy. At the same time, Sicily suddenly became wreathed in fog. The wind was forcing us toward that shore, and we could see no rocks or other natural features.

  “No more sail!” ordered the captain. The deckhands rushed to disengage the now-dangerous sail. “Oars! Oars! Row to the west!”

  I was standing, watching all this with bright interest, when I saw the little ships emerging from the foggy shoreline. They were moving at breakneck speed—how could they go that fast? They must be all oarsmen and no cargo.

  “Look!” I pointed them out to the captain. I expected him to say “Sicilian fishing boats” or “racing boats,” and explain about them.

  Instead he went pale and cried, “Pirates! Pirates!”

  They were making for us—three boats.

  “Hemiolias,” he said. “Of the fastest kind.”

  “I thought Pompey had destroyed the pirates,” I cried, as if saying it would make them disappear. I was still so ignorant then—I trusted in so many things.

  “Most of them, yes. But some linger on—like lions in the far mountains of Syria.” He found his voice, and his courage, again. “Sails again! Sails again!” he yelled. “Come about! Make for the strait!”

  The ship spun wildly around as the sail was let out and the fierce wind filled it, dragging the ship northward. We were headed toward the shore, where rocks waited in the mist. Behind us the pirates had swung their ships to follow. They were hoisting their sails now, too.

  I could hear the dashing of the waves against the rocks ahead, even though I could not see them through the fog.

  “Turn! Turn! Hard astarboard!”

  The ship thrust itself to the right, riding on the crest of a wave. Suddenly we were in the channel, the opening of the strait. Was the current flowing north or south—with us or against us?

  I was dismayed as I saw the pattern of the waves. The current was coming toward us; the wind and the waves would battle, and we would make little headway. The pirates would catch us easily—if they dared follow us into the strait.

  We plunged on, the boat dipping and bucking. The wind was pushing us forward, but the waves were hitting and slapping us in the opposite direction, thudding against our bow and trying to turn us sideways, to drive us onto the rocky shore.

  “Port-side oarsmen, row with all your strength!” cried the captain. Only that would keep us from drifting to the side.

  The channel narrowed, becoming more dangerous by the minute. In one stretch of relatively calm water, a pirate boat caught up with us, and a grapnel was thrown on board. They tried to board us, but our soldiers hacked off their lines and let them fall into the sea. All the pirates had elected to follow; the other boats were closing in on our wake.

  Now the channel narrowed even more, and the sea began to churn. Ahead of us, in the white, clingy mist, I could see only darkness. The channel was veering to the east, rightward.

  A dull noise filled my ears, a low undercurrent of sound.

  “The whirlpool! It’s spinning!” The captain was pointing. “Row as far east as possible! Stay out of its grasp!”

  Now, opening up before me, I could see the disturbed water surface, innocent-looking, just a series of large ripples, all curving in the same direction.

  “Stay away from those margins!” the captain yelled.

  Caesarion was in my arms, and I held him tightly. We would not lose one another to the dangerous waters; no, I would never let him go, as my mother had me. The wind was whipping my face and sending columns of sea spray high over the deck. The noise of the whirlpool was increasing; now it was as noisy as a cart rumbling over a stone road.

  Coming up on our left—the whirlpool side—was another of the pirate boats. I saw the men standing on deck, and one of them grasped a line and swung directly onto our deck, dropping down as lithely as a monkey. He straightened himself and looked around, pulling a dagger from his belt. Behind him, with a steady thump-thump-thump, came his shipmates, landing softly, one by one.

  My soldiers swung around to confront them as the deck rose and fell. Looming closer and closer ahead of us was the whirlpool. All hands were needed to save the ship; only my guards could be spared to fight the pirates.

  “Insignia!” one of them cried, a tall, wild-haired man, with the glee of a child who has discovered a pile of toys. “Royal insignia!”

  “It’s the Queen’s ship, all right,” one of them cried. He was red-faced and sho
uting. “We were right. First one to capture her gets half the ransom!” They advanced, bent over. Again I thought of monkeys.

  How did they know I was passing this way? The word must have got out quickly, for I had not been gone from Egypt that long.

  One of my bodyguards drew his stout sword, and the others around me sprang into action. The fight was on. I clutched Caesarion. They would never get him, even if I had to kill every one of them myself. I was so blinded with rage I wanted to kill, and never doubted that I could.

  One of the burly soldiers managed to fling a dark-haired pirate overboard, and he hit the water like a stone, sending up an enormous column of water. He was an excellent swimmer, and soon surfaced. But he had landed on the outer rim of the whirlpool, and I watched in fascinated horror as the mighty force of it lifted him and spun him toward the center, where he disappeared.

  One of the pirates on deck, who looked older than the others, gave a bloodcurdling cry and flung himself through the air at me, like a big cat. He knocked me to the ground, but I did not let go of Caesarion.

  “You’ve killed my brother!” he screamed. “Now I have two to avenge!” He slashed with his dagger, but his hand was trembling so much that he missed.

  “Fool! Kill our ransom?” Another pirate, landing sickeningly near, pinned his arm down. “Let Caesar pay for her! Like he paid for himself!” He had a loud, commanding voice.

  I twisted and rolled away. One of my soldiers attacked the two men, and another joined him.

  They knew exactly who I was, and had some grievance with Caesar. This had been carefully planned.