The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  “Did I not tell you that was what I would do?” he said. “Be reasonable, gentlemen. I merely kept my word.”

  “Mark you, all of you!” cried Philetas, addressing the entire company. “This man is dangerous! He is not what he pretends to be! If ever you feared anyone, fear him!”

  “Take them away,” said Caesar. “Take them away.” His voice was hard. Then he turned to me with a different one. “Thank you for this unlooked-for presentation. It gives me faith that in some fashion all the threads of one’s life are eventually gathered together, and answers are given.” He smiled a little uncertainly. “I will expect your company three days from now. Until then, please use this villa and the gardens for your own pleasure, and do not hesitate to send me word if there is anything you lack.” He turned and stepped smartly down the steps to his horse.

  The lictors turned to precede him, their axes flashing. Soon the whole company had departed, the tramp of their boots dying out in the distance.

  When I reentered the room, I saw it had been discreetly tidied, the sheets whisked away and replaced by fresh linens, windows opened, floors swept, and bundles of herbs hung to sweeten the air. All gone. The night had never happened. I wondered if any of the servants had seen Caesar come and go; probably not. He would have made sure of that.

  Charmian had dressed Caesarion, who was playing in the middle of the floor with Ptolemy. They all looked well rested and eager to explore.

  “What a company of soldiers!” cried Ptolemy. “And what were those things they were carrying? Those funny bundles of sticks with ribbons and axes?”

  “I believe they are called fasces. They denote some sort of authority,” I said. I realized I badly needed an advisor on Roman customs and history, and I could hardly expect Caesar to take on the task himself. Whom could I find, without embarrassing myself?

  “Everything here is so odd!” he cried, happy with the novelty. “The trees are all different, the language sounds ugly, and why do they wear those voluminous togas? Aren’t they hot in them?”

  Just then two servants entered, bearing trays of food. Ptolemy ran over to one and crowed with excitement.

  “What’s that? And that?” He stabbed his finger at each foreign-looking dish.

  After eating, we wandered through the villa and its grounds. It was peculiar to have complete access to someone’s private retreat in his absence. He was there, in every decision that had been made about the furnishings, the plantings, the decorations, the comforts, yet he was not there, so I could stare or linger as openly as I wished. As a child I had always been entranced by the story of Psyche in the palace of the invisible Cupid. I had known it by heart.

  As she walked through the lovely rooms, a voice all sweetness and gentleness spoke to her: “Fair Princess, all that you behold is yours. Command us, we are your servants.” Filled with wonder and delight, Psyche looked about in all directions, but saw no one. The voice continued, “Here is your chamber, and your bed of down; here is your bath, and in the adjoining alcove there is food.”

  Psyche bathed, and put on the lovely garments prepared for her, then seated herself on a chair of carved ivory. At once there floated to its place before her a table covered with golden dishes and the finest food. Although she could see no one, invisible hands served her, and unseen musicians played on lutes and sang to her.

  For a long time Psyche did not see the master of the palace. He visited her only in the nighttime, going away before morning dawned….

  Psyche begged her husband that her sisters might visit her. At first they were happy to see their young sister and to find her safe, but soon, seeing all the splendor in Psyche’s palace, envy sprang up in their hearts. They questioned her rudely concerning her husband.

  “Is he not some dreadful monster,” they asked, “some dragon, who will at length devour you? Remember what the oracle said!”

  I smiled, remembering my favorite tale and marveling that it seemed to have come true. Now I was acting it out myself, except that I knew Caesar and what he looked like.

  He is not what he pretends to be! If ever you feared anyone, fear him! Unbidden, the pirate’s words sounded in my mind. The hateful man—what did he know?

  The story had ended happily, for the unseen husband, Cupid, had loved Psyche dearly and protected her from the envy of his mother, Venus.

  Venus—Caesar’s ancestress.

  Suddenly the villa began to take on an ominous aspect. Stories of men and stories of the gods should be kept separate.

  “See this statue?” I said brightly. “I am sure it is a copy of one by Praxiteles….”

  The villa and its grounds occupied us all that day, and by nightfall we were ready for a quiet supper and a recuperative night. The twilight was tender and lingering, as if day were loath to depart from Rome. In Egypt, so much farther south, we had little interim between full day and full night.

  I lay down, grateful to be able to rest my head. Charmian came in, sat beside my bed on a low stool, and played the flute softly, as she did at home.

  “Are you happy to be here?” she asked me.

  “I think so,” I said. One moment I was, the next I was not sure. I would be relieved when the second and third ship arrived, bringing more of my attendants. At the moment I sorely missed Mardian. But I knew he could not come.

  “I wish we could see Rome itself,” she said. “I am about to die of curiosity.”

  “We can,” I said. “We can go tomorrow.”

  “I want to see Rome without being seen,” she said. “If you venture out, throngs of curious people will mob you—all eager to see the famous Queen of Egypt. You will spend all your time fending them off, and see nothing at all.”

  “Then we will have to go as Roman matrons,” I said.

  “Who do not speak Latin?” She laughed. “I enjoyed seeing Caesar’s face today when you told him you spoke it. You exaggerated more than a bit.”

  “Yes, I know. But by the time we leave, I shall speak it.” I was determined to do so. “And I can understand enough that we can get along. After all, all we need to do is ask the most rudimentary questions and make the plainest remarks—‘good day,’ ‘fine wine,’ and so on. Oh, let’s do it! Let’s go out tomorrow—to the Forum! And to the Circus Maximus! That way, when I go there to the dinner, I won’t be at such a gawking disadvantage. It is always best to spy out the unknown. You get us some clothes….”

  The next morning, a fine bedecked litter set out from the villa with two sedate matrons leaning back against the cushions, their faces veiled. Charmian and I had struggled with the unfamiliar garments—the undertunic, the long, full stola with its many folds around the hem, the enormous palla that enveloped it all and was draped over our heads, hiding our hair—for an hour.

  “It seems to me,” she had said, “the purpose of Roman clothes is to obliterate the body.”

  I giggled. “Yes. The only parts visible are the face, the hands, and the feet.”

  “Do they hate their bodies?” she wondered.

  “Evidently,” I said, wondering what sort of society would have invented these garments. They were not only unwieldy, because of their sheer bulk and layering, but unflattering. “Romans are reputed to be very uncomfortable with all the body’s natural functions.”

  Except Caesar, who was so different in so many ways, I thought.

  The litter left the villa’s grounds, and we were borne along to the river. The Tiber was not wide, but it was a serene, pleasing green. I could see the docks where the commercial ships tied up, with the usual warehouses and emporia alongside them. We had not landed there, and I was glad, for the odor of it was not very alluring. We kept to our side of the river, where there were only open fields, and gazed at the city sprawling on the other side.

  It was a cluster, a jumble of buildings of all sorts and sizes. I could see hills rising here and there, and tried to count them. Were there seven? There were supposed to be. I could see five or six. The city was shimmering in the moist hea
t of the summer day, and its aspect was not particularly inviting.

  But that is compared to Alexandria, I reminded myself, and Alexandria is supposedly the most beautiful city in the world. My judgment and senses have been spoiled by my native city.

  We continued along the shore, then we approached a bridge spanning the river to an island in its midst. I knew it was Tiber Island, which had a famous hospital dedicated to Asclepius on it. We crossed it and then took the other bridge onto the Roman side.

  Immediately it was different. There seemed to be an anthill of people milling and bobbing about in the narrow streets. They were loud and aggressive, shoving and yelling. A cleared space with the foundations of a new structure reared up before us.

  “What is that?” I asked one of our bearers, who luckily spoke Greek.

  “A theater being built by Caesar,” he said. “It’s the second stone one to go up. He is trying to outdo Pompey, who built a gigantic one not far away.”

  We took a sharp turn to the right, and once again everything changed. We were now fighting our way through a flower and fruit market that seemed vast. A loud din hung over the area, as sharp as the mingling odors of roses, field poppies, onions, and garlic. Everyone was gesturing and shouting, so it appeared. I saw a basket of unfamiliar fruit, dark and light green mixed together.

  “What are they?” I asked, pointing at them. “I would like some.”

  The bearers set down the litter. Now I was right in the crowd itself. Instinctively I drew my palla closer around my face.

  I could understand some of the conversations around me, but not enough. Most of it was the usual: bargaining, complaining, comparing goods. But occasionally I could hear the words Caesar and Cleopatra. What were the common people saying about us?

  The bearer returned with a handful of the fruits. They were olives, but larger and of a different color than I had ever seen.

  “We call them black and white olives, Your Majesty,” he said. “They grow near here, in the region of Picenum.”

  “Happy Picenum,” I said, “to have such treasures for the palate.” I bit into one; it it was running with juice, almost like a grape. The sweet oil had a slightly tangy undertaste.

  We finally fought our way free of the market, and were on a wide road winding to the left. I saw that we were at the base of a hill, and that crowning the hill were several temples. Could this be the Capitoline? If so, then the temples were among the most sacred in Rome, housing statues of their ancient protectors. Then, suddenly, we swung into a flat, wide area congested with buildings—and people.

  “The Forum Romanum,” said the bearer.

  So this was it—the heart of Rome. It looked like an ill-planned, crowded mess—like something a child makes when he assembles his blocks on a table too small for them. Everywhere buildings fought with one another for space, aligned at crazy angles to eke out the smallest advantage of site. Temples, covered porticoes, platforms, statues—there was no harmony or beauty to the whole. But then, that was how the world saw Romans themselves—as clumsy, unmannered, trampling on beauty because they had no eye for it.

  I suppose they think this is attractive, I thought. Poor Romans!

  A platform with steps sat in the middle of a somewhat open area, with the bronze rams of ships, called rostra, mounted on its front wall, bristling out like a row of boars’ snouts. This must be the famous place, named for those rams, the Rostra, where their politicians shouted speeches, backed up by the reminder of Rome’s military might. How subtle!

  Off to one side was a tall, square building that looked like a box standing on end. “What is that?” I asked the bearer. He must have been tiring of my questions by now.

  “The Curia, my lady,” he said. “Where the Senate meets.”

  So the mighty Senate of Rome met here?. In this coffin?

  “There are special tiers inside for the senators’ seats,” he said, almost as if he sensed my thoughts. “The doors are of bronze,” he said proudly.

  And, indeed, they were the only fine thing about it.

  “Caesar rebuilt it,” he said. “He had to move it to make room for his new Forum.”

  “What?” I asked. “What Forum?”

  “Caesar is building a new one, because he says this one is crowded and ugly. He is paying for the new one entirely out of his own funds. They say it will cost over a million sesterces. But then, he can afford it.”

  “Let me see it,” I said suddenly.

  Obediently the litter swung around and we made our way across the paved center of the Forum, over a broad paved roadway, between the Curia and a huge covered building, and found ourselves overlooking a small, perfect rectangle bordered with colonnades. A welcoming green space covered the middle. At the far end was a temple, finely proportioned and gleaming in white marble.

  “The temple isn’t dedicated yet,” said the bearer. “He built it to fulfill a vow he made before the final battle with Pompey. It’s to honor his lineage, and the goddess Venus—and incidentally, to show off some of his artwork.”

  I stared at it. It was lovely, as graceful as any in Greece itself, of that I was sure.

  “I hope I shall be here when it is dedicated,” I said.

  We returned to the old Forum, and continued down its middle, being careful to avoid the pedestals and statues. We passed what I had to admit was an admirable temple, and then came to a cluster of buildings: a large, long one, a round one with columns, and a square, blocky one with another attached.

  The patient bearer pointed them out one by one.

  “The square building is the Regia, where the College of Pontiffs meet and keep their records. The round temple is the Temple of Vesta, where the sacred flame is kept burning,” he said. “The priestesses, the Vestal Virgins, live in that long building beside it, so they can tend the flame, and—”

  “The house attached to it is the Pontifex Maximus,” I said. “Caesar lives there.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  His home! This was where he resided—right in the middle of the Forum! How did he stand it? My eyes swept up to a cool-looking, wooded hill rising beside the Forum, covered with spacious homes.

  “A popular place to live for the rich people,” said the bearer, pointing at it. “The Palatine Hill. Cicero has a home there—he bought it from Crassus—and Marc Antony’s family home is there as well.”

  Yes, I would choose the Palatine to live on, were I a Roman. I understood now why Caesar had a villa outside the city. I understood so much more than I had this morning. In that way the disguised visit was a success, even though I had not been able to penetrate any conversations. What the man in the Roman street thought about politics, I still had no inkling. But now at least I had met him face-to-face.

  24

  I awoke on the day of the dinner to a gentle rain. I could hear it falling on the trees outside, hitting the leaves. A moist breath came in the windows. It was a kind of rain I had never encountered before—a summer rain. In Alexandria—the only place in Egypt where it rains at all—there were lashing winter gales, but no sweet, warm rain like this.

  I lay in bed and sighed. I had heard nothing more from Caesar. Tonight—who did he plan to have at his table? He had said dinner at his home. Was it to be a banquet? Truthfully, his house did not look grandiose enough to have one. This villa was probably where he usually held large banquets. I assumed Ptolemy was invited; after all, it was Caesar who had insisted we be “married.” Since he was my legal husband, he could hardly be omitted.

  At midday I availed myself of the baths on the premises, marveling at the engineering genius that allowed the Romans to have hot and cold running water, as well as heated floor tiles. Thus had the Romans conquered most of the world, with their eager corps of engineers attached to each legion, putting up bridges over swirling rivers, laying down roads over bogs, copying the designs of captured ships. Now Roman engineering was providing for creature comforts like these baths, building aqueducts to bring fresh water—and wasting
it in fountains and pleasure grottoes—and inventing concrete, a liquid stone, that let them mold buildings, as rich as they liked, to their fancy. Soon there would be nothing left of the famous Roman asceticism. Those who could afford to wallow in comfort and pleasure usually ended by giving themselves up to it.

  I thought hard about what to wear to this affair, because it was all symbolic. Should I go in full monarchical regalia? I was, after all, a visiting queen. But this was a small dinner, not an official banquet—I assumed. On the other hand, to go in unadorned clothes might seem insulting. The question was—how did Caesar wish to present me? He had not indicated.

  “Charmian, what is your true feeling?” I asked her. “Your sense of these things is usually correct. What must I wear?”

  I was standing before my trunks, brimming with clothes of all description. The very variety of them made choosing more difficult.

  Charmian said, “My instinct is that you must make yourself as beautiful as possible. However you do that is up to you. Whatever you do, don’t be plain! Leave that to the Roman matrons.”

  “But it may offend them.”

  “I said beautiful, not vulgar. What is appropriate in the east may seem garish here. So put on only half as much jewelry and cosmetics.”

  I had a sudden suspicion. “You don’t suppose Calpurnia will be there?” Surely he couldn’t!

  “Unless she is conveniently away, how could she not be?”

  My heart sank. “I don’t know the Roman custom. Do husbands and wives attend all the same functions?” Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they went their separate ways at the table, as they seemed to in bed.

  “Probably,” she said. “Where else would the women get to plan their assignations with their husbands’ friends?”

  “Is it that bad?” It sounded so sordid.

  “It is always the scandals that reach our ears,” she said. “No one ever talks about someone who behaves himself—which most people in Rome probably do.”

  I pulled out one costume after another. It did not help that they came in three varieties: Egyptian, Greek, and what I thought of as simply Mediterranean. Finally I decided, on an impulse, to wear Egyptian garb.