The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  “It is what people have the most curiosity about,” I said. “It is the thing they see least often, and will provide the most diversion.” I had a feeling that it would please Caesar, reminding him of those long warm days on the Nile.

  I was ready. I stood before the pool in the atrium where I could see my full reflection: a slender column of white with a broad gold collar. I was wearing a close-fitting linen dress with sheer sleeves, tied with a wide sash of red silk. The heavy gold bracelet the Kandake had given me graced one wrist, and on my head was a gold fillet ornamented with the sacred cobra of Egypt in miniature. The effect was regal, exotic, and understated.

  Ptolemy was similarly attired in Egyptian style, wearing a jeweled collar, pleated linen robes, and gold sandals.

  I drew myself up and took a deep breath. The figure in the pool did likewise. I had to admit that she looked most imposing. Now to set out—and calm my pounding heart. I felt as if I were back in the carpet again, ready to be rolled out before a hostile audience.

  The litter swayed sensuously from side to side as it descended into the Roman twilight. The rain had stopped, leaving a sweet aftermath. Birds were singing madly, celebrating the end of the rain. In the fading light the Forum was much more appealing; the rain and the dinner hour had driven most people away, so it was almost deserted. Now I could see far down to the area where the Regia lay, and the round building of the Temple of Vesta. Torches were burning outside it, and as we came closer I saw that servants were stationed outside Caesar’s house to guide us.

  The litter was set down. A servant helped both me and Ptolemy out. Another bowed and then ushered us into the house. From the outside, it was a simple one, although of two stories, and the doors were plain wood studded with iron.

  My own attendant, who had followed in a separate litter, announced our entrance when we passed into the atrium. I saw several people gathered at one end of the room, but really I saw only one person: Caesar.

  His face broke into a smile when he saw us, and immediately he came to our sides. His gladness was unfeigned, and I felt joy flooding through me. It would be all right. I need not fear the others; they could not touch us.

  “Welcome to my home,” he said, “Your Majesties.” But he did not bow, since he was not our subject. “Allow me to present you. I have gathered together those nearest and dearest to me, whom I most wish you to meet.” He was speaking Greek. So that would be the tongue for tonight.

  There were some five or six people in a knot at the back of the room.

  “I am pleased,” I said.

  He led us over to them, to all those faces with mixed expressions of curiosity, wariness, and—distaste.

  “My wife, Calpurnia.”

  A tall woman with tightly bound brown hair closed her eyes and lowered her head. “Your Majesties,” she said in a low, expressionless voice. She was prettier than I had hoped.

  “My great-nephew, Gaius Octavian.”

  I try now to recall my exact first impression of him, of this boy who was only sixteen years old at the time. To be honest, it was that he was a slight, pale, beautiful statue. His features were delicate, his eyes a cold shade of light blue, his hair dark gold. Even though he was short, his proportions were perfect. He looked like a work of art that Caesar might have carried off from one of his conquests.

  “I am honored,” he said quietly.

  “And his sister, my great-niece, Octavia.”

  Octavia was more substantial, older, larger, with abundant thick, dark hair. She inclined her head.

  “My dear friend Marcus Brutus, and his mother, Servilia.”

  A middle-aged man with a melancholy expression and straight lips stepped forward, and an older woman with an ample bosom, bound with crisscrossed linen strips around her gown, inclined her head.

  “He honors us by returning from his post as governor of Cisalpine Gaul to attend our Triumphs,” said Caesar.

  Both Brutus and his mother were silent. Finally Servilia smiled and said, “Welcome to Rome, Your Majesties.” Her voice was very pleasant. Brutus just made a stabbing nod of the head in concurrence.

  “Now, let’s see, that’s all of us—oh yes, last of all is Marcus Agrippa here.” With a sweep of his arm, Caesar indicated a youth standing next to Octavian. He was ruggedly handsome, with plain, blunt features—deep-set eyes, straight eyebrows, thin, well-formed lips. His hair was a close-cropped, dark thatch. “They are inseparable, so that makes Agrippa almost related to me.”

  Agrippa gave the only full smile I had received so far, besides Caesar’s.

  “The King and Queen of Egypt have traveled a long way in order to attend the Triumphs,” said Caesar. “It was, indeed, in restoring them to the throne that I was forced to fight the Alexandrian War. So it is fitting that they should come and gaze on their vanquished enemies.”

  “Including their own sister.” A man spoke—someone with a low voice.

  “Yes, Brutus,” said Caesar. “As we know, so sadly, family ties are not always strong enough to prevent treason. That is the agony of civil war—brother against brother. That is why I am so deeply thankful to have ended the civil wars that have torn us Romans apart.”

  A heavy silence fell over the group. With a beginning like this, I thought, how could we endure an entire evening?

  Caesar made a motion with his hand, and from an alcove a lyre and a flute began playing, simple melodies that belied the tension. I had not even glimpsed the musicians when we first entered. Now a maidservant came with her arms brimming with garlands of roses we were to wear as chaplets on our heads. I remembered now that the Romans liked to put on flowers for dinners, twining them in their hair and draping them around their necks. These were white, many-petaled, and very fragrant. Close on her heels came the cellarius, the wine steward, with silver cups of mulsum, a divine blending of wine and honey. Gratefully I took mine, hoping that the magic of wine would act on the company to make the evening easy.

  “The tables await,” said Caesar, gesturing toward an adjoining room. We all followed him, marching two by two, with only Agrippa by himself.

  The room was surprisingly large, and I saw that beyond the far doors a garden opened. The entire center of the room was taken up with the couches and tables where we would dine—three couches, touching end to end to make a rectangle with one side open. Each couch held three diners, and where one reclined was subject to the strictest protocol. No one needed to be told where to go; everyone knew. I was on the end of the middle couch, in the place of honor, and Caesar, as host, was on my right, at the top of the family couch. On my other side was Octavia, and on her other side was Ptolemy.

  There were bolsters for us to lean our left elbows on, and the couches were spread with costly material, not ornamented but luxurious in the fineness of the wool and silk itself. Servants brought footstools for us, and removed our sandals, after first wiping our feet with scented water. The cellarius discreetly refilled our wine cups.

  Before each couch was a long table, inlaid with silver, a little lower than the couches. There our plates, knives, and spoons rested, along with gigantic napkins made of stuff even more precious than the couch-covers themselves. Nonetheless we took the napkins and spread them out in front of us, protecting one material with its better.

  Caesar leaned on his elbow and held out his cup. Even in this awkward position, such was the strength of his arm that he did not tremble; his hand was absolutely steady.

  “Welcome, friends and family,” he said. “As Aeschylus said, ‘What is pleasanter than the tie of host and guest?’ ”

  Everyone made polite low murmurs of assent and smiled.

  Now I in turn raised my cup. I must speak. “That is one of the chiefest joys of life. As our own Alexandrian Callimachus wrote, ‘You are walking by the tomb of Battiades, who knew well how to write poetry, and enjoy laughter at the right moment, over the wine.’ Let us enjoy laughter tonight, over the wine, my friends and companions.” I took a sip.

  Everyone
followed. Dear Dionysus! I thought, as I watched them drink. Don’t fail me!

  “The Queen and King have had a most perilous journey here,” said Caesar. “It seems that I must count my enemies not only on land but on the sea as well. Those I thought long dead have risen up against me. Seeking revenge, a group of pirates, led by two who had held me years ago, attacked their ship and drove them into the Strait of Messina.” He paused, while everyone waited to hear the outcome. “The gods were with them—so that in addition to their other gifts, they were able to present me with these enemies as prisoners. A most welcome present!” He gave a hearty laugh. “And so, to celebrate this adventure, tonight, instead of the usual Falernian wine, I serve Mamertine, from Messina.” He nodded to the cellarius, who now presented a new amphora, then disappeared to transfer the wine into smaller pitchers.

  The servers now began to bring the first course, the gustum, which would serve to stimulate our appetites. There were platters of mackerel in rue, with slices of egg; olive paste with flat bread from Capea; a roll of asparagus and figpecker; and sliced stalks of leeks, on beds of curly lettuce. Everyone busied himself with the food, and the awkwardness began to subside. I stole a look at Caesar, then at Calpurnia, next to him on the other side. She was gazing at him possessively. Our eyes met for an instant before I looked away.

  Calpurnia was somewhere around thirty, I would guess. She must have married young. She was not beautiful enough for Caesar, but still I wished she were plainer. We want our lover to be loved by someone worthy of him, but never to be worthier than ourselves.

  “Tell me about this house,” I said. “I know it is the official house of the Pontifex Maximus. But what does that mean? What office is this?” I hoped my tone was brightly interested, and that the topic was an innocent one.

  “Uncle Julius, may I answer?”

  I was startled to hear Octavian, sitting in the lowest position in the room—the third place on the family couch—speak up in a clear voice.

  “Certainly,” said Caesar, looking pleased. “Now that you yourself are a pontiff in the college, it is fitting.”

  Octavian leaned forward, his fine-featured face solemn. “It is the oldest and most sacred order of priests in Rome. We go all the way back to the founding of Rome. We guard the shields and spears that foretell victory, and we keep the archives and the city annals.” In all his youthful earnestness, he burned pure as a flame before the altar of Mars. “My uncle has been Pontifex Maximus for almost twenty years.”

  “Yes,” said Caesar, “and the Pontiff is going to exercise one of his prerogatives and reform the calendar.”

  There were sharp intakes of breath all around the tables.

  “It is time! Our calendar no longer bears any resemblance to the natural one. We celebrate harvest festivals while it is yet summer, and midsummer when the days are shorter than the nights. The priests who had the duty of regulating it have failed. So I shall revise it. It falls within my purview.”

  “But, Caesar,” said Brutus, “it is not something for an ordinary man, no matter how well intentioned. It requires knowledge of astronomy and mathematics and other calendar systems that have been tried, and failed.” I watched his face; it was hard to tell whether he thought Caesar a fool or was just trying to warn him.

  “In Alexandria we have a man who excels at that, and is world-renowned among scholars,” I said. “Sosigenes. You have heard of him?”

  Nodding heads told me they had.

  “I will send for him straightway, Caesar,” I said. “I place him at your service.” Suddenly I remembered what I had heard about a month being named in his honor. “Is it true that the new calendar will bear a newly named month?” I asked.

  “There has been mention of perhaps renaming my birth month, Quintilis, in my honor, but—” He shrugged.

  “It is just a rumor!” said Brutus, scowling. “The months are properly numbered, or named after gods, not human beings. Rome would not permit such a thing.”

  “Nonetheless I have heard it spoken of,” said Octavian. He looked, unblinking and adoring, at his uncle. Did he wish it to be true? Or would it offend his fierce sense of propriety?

  His very intensity made his finely chiseled features seem to take on yet more beauty. I had heard of the characteristic “Julian beauty,” had heard that all the faces of that family were known to be delicate, with an exquisite bone structure. Even though Octavian did not look like Caesar, they did share that characteristic. I looked at Octavia. Again, she did not resemble the other two, but her features were likewise elegant and well formed. I noticed she wore a wedding ring on one of her long, graceful hands. I wondered where her husband was.

  “He has honors enough,” said Brutus. “A thanksgiving of forty days for his victories has been proclaimed, there will be four successive Triumphs, he has been appointed ‘Prefect of Morals’ and Dictator for ten years, and his Triumphal chariot will be placed on the Capitoline Hill opposite Jupiter’s. He has no need of a month of ‘Julius.’ He has more than a month already, all his!”

  “Brutus, do you begrudge me these things?”

  That awful silence, only just dispelled, descended again. And I heard in Caesar’s voice such sorrow, such pain, that it hurt me to hear it. What was Brutus to him, that his disapproval should rend him so?

  “No, of course not.” It was not Brutus who spoke but Servilia, his mother.

  “Brutus?” Caesar asked again.

  “No,” he mumbled, looking away and not at Caesar.

  “My Caesar has been away from Rome eleven of the past twelve years,” said Calpurnia. “If Rome wishes to honor him for what he has done for her, toiling so far afield, why should we object?” She had a pleasing voice, I had to admit. “Since we have been married, thirteen years ago, he has been at my side only a few weeks.”

  As she spoke, I realized that he had spent more time with me than with her.

  I picked at my mackerel and waited for the remark to pass.

  “It is difficult, now, to know what is noble in Rome and must be preserved, and what has served its time and must be replaced,” said Octavian thoughtfully.

  “Young Octavian is a fierce guardian of all things traditional,” said Caesar. “If anything passes his scrutiny, it is sure to be proper.”

  “In Egypt it seems we have nothing but tradition,” said Ptolemy suddenly. “We are surrounded by things made so long ago they seem divine. Everywhere there are tombs, statues…ghosts.”

  “But Alexandria is a new city,” said Octavia, beside him. “All new, and very beautiful, from what I have heard.”

  “Yes,” I said proudly. “It is the most modern city in the world, and it was planned by the Great Alexander.”

  Servers began removing the plates of the gustum and made ready to bring out the main course, the mensa prima. The rattling of the utensils, and the busyness of the attendants, made us pause in the conversation. I looked at Caesar and noticed that he had not touched his wine. Then I remembered he had told me he seldom drank it, lest it provoke his condition. He also had eaten very little.

  “Did you enjoy Alexandria?” Calpurnia asked Caesar in a loud voice.

  He started, taken by surprise. Clearly such bluntness was out of character for Calpurnia; she must be very angry. He cleared his throat, thinking hard. “I enjoy all battlefields,” he finally said. “And Alexandria was a battlefield; it required all my resources to teach myself how to fight in city streets, with a civilian population all around. Especially as any mistakes could cost innocent people dear.”

  Calpurnia opened her mouth to press further, but lost her nerve.

  Just then the new courses were brought out, arranged on silver platters. There was a rich, dark pork stew with apples. I was most curious to try it, as pork is not eaten in Egypt. There was also a kid, prepared Parthian style, and a dish of stuffed thrushes fed with myrtle. Then, to the sighs of the guests, came a platter with a gigantic red roasted mullet on it, accompanied by a pickle sauce.

 
; “Did you go down and bid on the mullet?” asked Agrippa, laughing. It seemed that mullet had become a passion with Romans, and prominent houses bid in auctions for them at the fish market. “How did you ever outbid Marc Antony? He goes down every day, determined to carry off the best.”

  “What, in person?” Octavian sounded scandalized.

  “It’s no worse than the other things he does. Carrying on with that retinue of actors and actresses, drinking, living in Pompey’s house without paying for it,” said Brutus. “But I speak of the man you appointed to take charge of Rome in your absence, Caesar.”

  “He did not perform well,” said Caesar. “I was disappointed. He was dismissed. There’s an end to it. What he does with his drink and his actresses concerns me not.”

  “But is he not related to us? Is he not part of the Julian house?” Octavian sounded distressed.

  “Distantly,” said Caesar.

  “Not distantly enough,” said Octavia.

  “Why speak any further of him?” said Caesar. “He has his merits, and they have served me well in the past. He failed in this latest task. But he is a great general, nonetheless. He has a deep intuitive sense of tactics. There is no man I would sooner have with me on the battlefield.”

  “I met Marc Antony once,” I said. “It was when he came to Egypt with Gabinius.” I remembered the laughing young cavalry officer who had refrained from making fun of my drunken father when the other Romans looked at him askance. He had been kind.

  “That was ten years ago or more,” said Brutus. “He has changed since then.” He speared a large chunk of meat with his knife, and transferred it, dripping, to his platter. Splatters of sauce fell on the napkin.

  More dishes followed: boiled cucumber and what Caesar announced was “squash, Alexandrian style.” It was something I had never tasted before, but obviously it fit what Romans imagined about us. It was filled with cinnamon and honey.