The soldiers had the pirates pinned, and were about to slit their throats.
“Stop!” I screamed. “This is an attack against Caesar. Let him see them, and punish them!”
Disappointed, the soldiers had no choice but to obey. They savagely hit the pirates on the head to knock them unconscious, then threw their bodies down with the rowers.
The hand-to-hand fighting on the deck went on, but the pirates were retreating, demoralized at the capture of their leaders. One of them plunged overboard, diving directly into the center of the whirlpool in a spectacular arching leap of suicide.
Now we were passing just to the side of the monster, and its cry had become a roar. I felt the ship straining as the almost irresistible force of the suction pulled on its timbers; I could smell the foul odor of whatever it was belching up from the deep, perhaps the remains of its digested victims.
“Hold fast! Hold fast!” cried the captain. The ship shuddered and groaned; the whirlpool reached for us; we shot past it.
Ahead of us loomed the ugly, high, jagged rock.
“Quick! Steer to the other side, to the other side!” screamed the captain. The gushing white foam that surrounded the vicious rock like a skirt touched our sides. There was no escape. We were going right for it! We were going to burst open on it!
With a wrench, the boat dashed against a seaweed-bed that had been disgorged from the whirlpool and now matted against some rocks. The boat struck them broadside, but the seaweed cushioned the blow and we escaped gouging. The force of it turned the ship so it changed direction and scudded past the base of the great rock of Scylla. The sea monster, she of the six heads who had devoured six of Odysseus’s men, missed her meal with us. The boat emerged on the other side of her, and suddenly we were out of the strait altogether, being blown clear of it by our old companion, the south wind.
Behind us straggled two of the pirate boats. One went down in the whirlpool, to the ghastly wailing of its crew. The other escaped destruction, but gave up the chase once we had cleared the strait.
I was trembling all over, as if my limbs had incorporated the waves within themselves. I clung to the rail and kept looking behind us to see the dark-toothed rock of Scylla growing smaller, receding behind our wake. The oarsmen were still rowing frantically, and in their panic they started to lose the rhythm of their strokes. Oars started hitting oars instead of dipping and leaving the water in perfect timing. The timekeeper, the keleustes, calmed them by ordering them to slow down.
In the meantime, the two captured pirates were being chained up before they regained consciousness. They were hauled up from the rowers’ benches, where they were hardly wanted, and tied to the mast. They slumped over, their heads lolling to one side.
I studied them carefully. One of them was bald and very muscular; his fellow was a weedy little man. It was the bald one who had tried to stab me, and had yelled about his brother. The skinny one had talked about a ransom from Caesar. They both looked old to be pirates; I guessed them to be around fifty, unless the harsh sun had aged their skins unduly.
“They’ll talk soon enough,” said the captain. “But why didn’t you let them be killed?”
“I wish to make a present of them to Caesar,” I said. “It was his name they invoked; this has something to do with him.” Although I had brought gifts—a costly Pharaonic statue that I knew Caesar coveted, as well as the usual gold and pearls—I knew the pirates would please him most of all.
More sail was let out, to give the rowers a rest. We were now beginning to slide past the coast of Italy itself—Italy at last! Ahead of us in the sea, like a gigantic natural lighthouse, sat the great volcano of Strongyle, its top emitting steam and clouds.
“How much longer now?” I asked the captain, knowing I sounded like a child.
He looked up at the clouds being pushed along with us.
“If this south wind holds, only another few days,” he said. “Another few days until we land,”
It was ten days—the wind died down—until we approached the port of Ostia at the mouth of the Tiber, the famous Tiber. I stepped onto the landing and felt the solid earth beneath my feet for the first time in weeks. We had made surprisingly good time, considering the prevailing winds and currents, but it had still taken over forty days.
I looked at the stream before me with astonishment. The Tiber was a small river, nothing like my Nile. It looked so harmless, so utterly negligible, a child’s river. What kind of people lived on its banks, in their city that sought to rule the entire world?
22
The sun had set; the sky above remained a rich and tender gold-streaked blue. Slowly I turned around to study my surroundings, this first soil of Italy upon which I found myself. The most immediate thing that struck me was the trees—towering pines with wide parasols of bristled branches. I had never seen anything remotely like them. Their trunks were bare until a certain height, like a palm tree, but their twisted limbs and odd foliage, of a deep, dark green, seemed something from a fanciful traveler’s tale. Just then a gentle breeze stirred the tops of the trees, and the most extraordinary aroma came out of them: sweet, piercing, seemingly the very essence of greenness.
Under my feet was a thick carpet of grass, denser than any I had ever seen. There were brittle brown needles in it—dead pine leaves, I assumed—that my shoes crushed, releasing still more pine odor. The grass itself felt moist and strangely springy and resilient; alive, not dead like a flat rug.
We had sent messengers to notify Caesar of our arrival, but before they could possibly have reached him, a contingent of officials approached us. They brought sleek horses and several litters, and were headed by a magistrate riding a white horse. He was clearly looking for us; his head was swiveling from side to side. Behind him rode another official-looking man.
Sighting us, he reined in his horse and, dismounting, walked toward us. I saw that he was a middle-aged man with one of those round faces that are difficult to remember, because they are so ordinary. He was wearing a white tunic with narrow vertical bands, and a light cloak over it. He carried a scroll in one hand.
“Queen Cleopatra?” he asked, before bowing his head. “Welcome to Rome. I am here in Caesar’s name to greet you, and escort you to your quarters. I am Gaius Oppius.”
So Caesar had not come himself. Of course it would have been improper for him to wait on the ramparts for my arrival and then rush out like a schoolboy. My arrival was not predictable; I could have come at any time. Yet I was disappointed. My sting of disappointment told me how much I wished to see him. I forced myself to smile.
“I thank you, my good friend,” I said.
The second man had now dismounted, and was making his way over to us. He was tall, with formidable dark eyebrows. He approached briskly, bowed, and said, “Cornelius Balbus at your service, Your Majesty. In the wars, praefectus fabrum of Caesar’s army.” His Greek had a heavy Spanish accent.
“We are the most trusted agents and secretaries of the glorious Caesar,” said Oppius. “It is our honor to serve him day and night.” He handed me the scroll. “A message from the Mighty One.”
I broke the seal and unrolled it carefully. It was still light enough to read—most peculiar, for it to remain light so long after sunset—and I was glad; I did not wish a hovering torchbearer to read it over my shoulder.
It was very short, and it would not have mattered if a torchbearer had read it. It also bore no date; obviously he had prepared it ahead of time.
Welcome to Rome. It is my privilege to be able to repay your kind hospitality to me in Alexandria. I have no palace in which to house you, but I offer my best residence: my villa, and gardens across the Tiber. Regard them as if they were yours. I myself will be at my home near the Temple of Vesta in the Forum. I will call upon you, with all respect, as soon as I may. I trust your journey was without incident.
With all honor and regard,
G. Julius Caesar, Consul, Imperator, Dictator of the Roman People
; “Dictator?” I wondered out loud.
“For the next ten years. An honor just conferred,” said Balbus. “One without precedent.” He beamed as if he had engineered it himself.
“What does it mean?” I asked. “I thought a Roman dictator was appointed only for emergencies, and only for six months.”
They shrugged. “Caesar makes all things new, rewriting them in his own image.” They looked around at my party. “Young King Ptolemy?” They asked in unison. My little brother blushed with pleasure at the attention. “And…?” They leaned over and studied Caesarion.
Now was the time to say it. “This is the son the Dictator Caesar has given me.” I held him up so they could see him clearly.
They did not respond, except to say, “The royal litter is for you, and your son. For the rest, we have brought horses and carriages.”
It was dark before we reached our destination. I watched from the litter as we proceeded along the Tiber, up toward Rome in the failing light. We passed alongside the city wall, rough-cut stone with torches flaring in their sockets. The creak of the leather straps on the litter, and the angle of it, told me we were climbing up a hill. As we went higher, I could just see the city of Rome on the far side of the river. It looked small and its buildings were dark—mostly of brick, I assumed. There was no glow of white marble, and nothing lofty, reaching toward the sky. Here and there I thought I saw a temple, but I could not be sure.
I heard the rustle of what seemed a forest, and a cool breeze reached inside the litter. Caesarion had fallen asleep against me, only to be awakened as they set the litter down.
“We are here, Your Majesty.” Balbus himself drew the curtains and offered me his hand to help me out.
Before me loomed a large dwelling, surrounded by a frame of trees and grounds filled with—from what I could see—hedges, statues, and fountains. The air was more than cool, it was perfumed with light, playful fragrances. The flowers here were evidently more delicate and their perfume more subtle than ours of Egypt. The leaves on a thousand trees were whispering to me in the night.
Servants emerged from the entrance to the building, carrying torches.
“Welcome, welcome,” they chorused. At least I could understand that much Latin without difficulty.
I followed them toward the doorway, flanked with statues in niches on either side. Immediately I found myself walking on mosaic, and ahead of me was a large open room, a sort of enclosed courtyard. More doors opened off that; the servants were gliding through one of them, and I followed.
Up a stairway, and then down another hallway, and finally into a large tile-floored room. Even in the dim light I could see that the walls were not white, but a deep green, with painted garlands hung all around.
“Here is Caesar’s own room, now yours,” said the servant. “He gives it to you.”
A table stood, draped with a heavy red cloth, and on it a tray of fruit, breads, and a pitcher of wine. To one side was a large bed, its legs of carved wood, a coverlet of fine wool on it. Several couches, more tables, ornate oil lamp stands, and then—I began to notice how many statues were displayed here. At least now I could know that Caesar would always welcome another one, but I wished he did not already have so many.
The servants lit the many wicks in the standing holder—six or seven lamps swung from its arms. The room grew much lighter. Suddenly I was very tired, and only desired to put them out again and lie down.
I was asleep. I had no idea how long I had been asleep; the odd sensation of walking on firm ground again after so many days at sea, as well as the sudden impact of unfamiliar language, colors, and smells all around me, had confused my sense of time and place. I opened my eyes to see the faint light of a lamp being held up over my head. Someone was standing beside my bed, watching me.
With a start I sat up, but swifter than my movement a hand grasped my shoulder. The other one put the lamp down and embraced me.
“I am here, my dearest, my beloved,” said the voice of Caesar, a soft whisper in the darkness.
It still seemed like a dream, but there was no other voice like that in all the world. In the miracle of his physical presence I forgot his long silence, I forgot Eunoe (but if I did, why then do I mention her?), I forgot his stilted, cold, peremptory letters. I flung my arms around him with a cry of gladness.
“Forgive me, I could not meet you, could not ever send a private letter. I knew whatever I wrote would be public knowledge. I rejoice that you came anyway. I prayed you would sense all the things I could not openly say.”
He kissed me, and it was as if he had never been parted from me for more than an instant. Yet so much had happened since then; so many battles, so many men killed, so many victories for him and defeats for others. Still, here he sat in the dark, on a bed like any other person, stealing in at night, eager like a lover unsure of himself.
“I did. I do,” I assured him. Such simple words, after so long a time. I reached out my hand and touched his face. I thought of all he was, here in Rome.
“My Dictator,” I murmured. “Must I obey all your commands?”
“Only Roman citizens are bound to do so,” he said. “You are free from my demands. Whatever we choose to do, we need only follow our own private desires.”
I leaned over and kissed him, feeling once again his firm, narrow mouth, so often remembered. “So when the Queen of Egypt kisses the Dictator of Rome, it is not political?”
“No,” he said. “Whatever my enemies say, I swear to you that this is a private passion, and entirely my own.”
“For no other reason?”
“I swear it. In bringing you to Rome, I have given my enemies grist for their mill. It serves no political purpose; a wiser politician than I would never have done it. It will excite the envy of all who are not so fortunate, and give offense to those who are overly moralistic.” He shook his head. “But I care not. This repays me—just to see you once again.” He kissed me then, so fiercely that I had no desire to continue talking, no wish to resist him. He seemed to have the power to ignite such consuming passion in me that all thought fled before it. It was always his own genius to cause me to suspend all reason, all caution, to give myself up entirely to his secret moment.
I ran my hand over his shoulders, feeling their hard strength beneath the seam of his tunic. He was barely back from the field, and his soldier’s life there had clearly burned off any remnants of ease from his body. He seemed entirely an instrument of war, polished and honed like one of his legionaries’ swords. In the feel of his arms there was no cushion, no softness. Yet his words were tender, his voice caressing.
Moving my hands over his chest, I found it felt more like the leather cuirass a common soldier wears to protect it than like weak flesh that needs protecting. But I could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, proving that he was no suit of armor or a bronze statue. His breath was coming faster than if he were merely at rest; it was more as if he had sighted something from the crest of a hill, something he had not expected. He sighed, and a relaxation spread through him.
“You are here, and all is well,” he said. He turned slightly on the edge of the bed where he sat, and took my face between his hands. Silently he studied my features in the dull, flickering light for so long I wondered why. Why was he staring at me so intently? His dark eyes seemed to be searching for something in mine, something out of his sight. “Yes, you truly are she,” he finally said.
Who? I wanted to ask. Who is “she”?
He bent his head to kiss my shoulders, kissing each one in turn like a priest bestowing an honor, then he kissed all along my collar bones, until he reached the hollow of my neck. His lips were light, fluttering against my skin like the brush of a butterfly’s wings, making my blood leap up to meet them. Once, twice, three times, he kissed that hollow, each time more lingeringly, until at last he put the full force of his mouth against it, causing something inside me to turn over with sickening desire. I threw my head back and felt my body be
g for more. I wanted him to go on kissing me there forever, but at the same time remaining passive and limp was too much torture for me.
I twisted my head and began to kiss the side of his neck all the way up to his ear, and ran my hands over his back. This tunic! He had to get rid of it, it was standing between my hands and his flesh, his marvelous flesh that I longed to feel directly. I pulled at its sleeves, trying to force it down over his arms. He stopped what he was doing and laughed softly.
“I am happy to oblige,” he said. “But I would not wish to have you as my general; clearly you are impatient for battle. Such generals often lead charges before their troops are ready, and lose battles thereby.”
“Are you not ready for battle?” I asked. He had embarrassed me. I dropped his sleeve.
He kissed me, this time on the mouth. “But, my sweet child, this is not a battle, O ye gods, nothing of the sort.” He moved back a little and very gently untied the shoulders of my gown, letting the silk fall away, down to my waist. Then he bent his head and kissed each of my breasts a long time, until I thought I could stand it no longer. I pulled his head up and clasped him against me, at the same time falling back on the pillows and drawing him with me. A great rough sigh escaped from him. Now I could feel his heart beating faster, and his breath coming in shorter, louder bursts.
He still wore his tunic. “The tunic…” I murmured. Its material was making folds all over his back.
He sat up and, with a twist of his arms, flung it off over his head. Then he pulled my gown off; I was eager to have it gone, to have nothing between my body and his.
My blood seemed to be truly on fire, my veins bursting with too much of it. To my disappointment, he did not fall on me and cover my body with his, but crouched over and kissed my breasts and belly with a slow deliberateness that made me want to shriek with madness, especially when he lingered over my navel, treating it with infinite tenderness, more suitable for an infant like Caesarion than for me, a woman with such desire I felt it choking me, felt my throat tightening so much I could hardly breathe. My air was being cut off, and all because of this overwhelming desire. I let out one long, ragged cry of anguish.
The Memoirs of Cleopatra Page 34