“This is new to me,” I confessed. “There is much we do not know about one another’s customs. I have found many things in Rome puzzling. For example, the lictors and the bundles of branches they carry. What do they mean? And the ranks of senators, the quaestors and praetors and people called curule aediles—what responsibilities do they have?”
“You ask questions like a child,” said Brutus. “Is this how a queen receives knowledge?”
“It is how all wise people do, Brutus,” Caesar reproved him. Then he turned to me. “I see that you need someone to explain things that are foreign to you. Very well—who better than Octavian, that Roman through-and-through?”
Not his nephew! It would be irksome to have this boy trailing around after me, I could tell. Nonetheless I smiled and said, “No, Octavian must not leave his duties at the College of Pontiffs.”
“Oh, but this will be good training for him! He can clarify his own thoughts in explaining things to you,” said Caesar. “He must venture out in public. He is, after all, to ride in a chariot in my Triumphs.”
“Even though he did not join you on the battlefield,” said Agrippa. “Well, next time we’ll both be there!” He chewed heartily on a piece of kid.
I bent to my plate and enjoyed tasting the pork. It is a robust meat, with a rich flavor. This particular animal had been fed on acorns in Brutus’s province, so he said.
“Brutus may soon remarry,” said Servilia abruptly. “He may marry my niece Porcia, Cato’s daughter.”
Caesar put down his knife and looked steadily at Brutus. “Perhaps you will wish to reconsider,” he said slowly.
“We have no king in Rome from whom I must ask permission,” he answered. “Or does the Prefect of Morals control all the marriages?”
“Of course not,” said Caesar lightly. “But marrying within one’s own family can get monotonous. One has heard all the same family stories, knows all the jokes and all the same recipes. No novelty.”
“Well, we Ptolemies like it that way!” said my brother. “We’ve practiced brother-sister marriages for generations, just like the Pharaohs! That’s because we’re divine!”
Everyone stared at him.
“We don’t believe in that in Rome,” said Servilia quietly.
“In brothers marrying sisters?” Ptolemy asked.
“No. In kings, and in people claiming to be divine. We have a republic here—all citizens are equal.”
“What a funny idea!” Ptolemy laughed.
“It is a western idea,” I said quickly to him. “People in the east feel differently. In our part of the world, kings are the tradition. And we believe that gods mingle with men on many levels.”
“Yes, particularly in bed,” said Agrippa. But there was no malice in his voice. “Zeus seems to spend most of his time attacking mortal women in one guise or another—first as a golden shower, then as a swan—and creating hordes of half-divine offspring. Bastards.”
“Men do enough of that on their own,” said Calpurnia. “They need no help from the gods.”
Clearly she was alluding to me and Caesarion. So it was known all over Rome. Now it was up to Caesar to say something. Let him speak!
But he refused to rise to the bait. The moment passed, and the servants began removing the plates and getting ready for our last course, the mensa secunda—a selection of rich, sweet treats. We would drink passum with them, a heavy raisin wine.
On little trays they brought out honey custard, made with Attic honey, and a preserve of pears. Last they brought a platter heaped high with pomegranates. Caesar took the topmost one off the pile and put it directly on my plate, looking knowingly at me.
At last I have found someone who is exactly like me. We are two halves of a pomegranate, and each section fits perfectly together. I remembered those words he had spoken in Alexandria. Yet here, in Rome, surrounded by his family—was he more like them, or more like me? Which was he, truly?
“What will happen?” I asked, so low that only he could hear it. I saw now that nothing was settled, nothing safe. The master of the world, who had swept aside all the playing pieces in Egypt with one quick brush of his hand, was just a man at a dinner in Rome, surrounded by cold, unfriendly friends. And beyond them lurked—genuine animosity. I sensed it. We don’t believe in that in Rome. What could be Caesar’s ultimate place here?
“I know not,” he answered, equally softly.
I had thought the dinner was over, but I was surprised to hear the musicians begin playing new tunes, and Caesar said, “Friends, I wish you to be the first to hear the beginning of a composition on the Alexandrian War. My good friend, the praetor Aulus Hirtius, has begun to recount it, and I invited him to join us and bring both his account and his famous mulberries in sapa.”
Everyone murmured expectantly, and I later was told that Hirtius was well known for his refined tastes in food. His mulberries, it seemed, would be far superior to regular ones.
A pleasant-looking man strode into the room, a slave following him with a silver serving dish. I could see the deep reddish purple berries inside.
“It is my honor to give my humble recounting of the war before those who lived it,” he said. “Your Majesties, I beg you to correct anything I say that is wrong. As you know full well, I was not there.” He nodded to us, looked around at the company, then stepped back and began reciting. “ ‘Bello Alexandrino conflato Caesar Rhodo atque ex Syria Ciliciaque omnem classem arcessit: Creta sagittarios, equites ab rege….’ ”
Caesar frowned. He knew Ptolemy and I could not follow it. Yet I wished he would just let Hirtius continue. It gave me an opportunity to look carefully at the others, to study them without the constant necessity of being on my guard and responding to comments and questions.
My wish was not to be granted. Caesar held up his hand. “I pray you, our royal guests are not as practiced in Latin as the rest of the company. I believe they could better enjoy it in Greek.”
“Oh yes. Of course.” Hirtius shut his eyes and went back to the beginning. “ ‘When the Alexandrian War flared up, Caesar summoned every fleet from Rhodes and Syria and Cilicia; from Crete he raised archers, and cavalry from…’ ”
The berries had been ladled out into small, multicolored glass dishes. Multicolored glassware was an Alexandrian specialty. Who had thought of this touch—Caesar or Hirtius? I tasted the berries, finding them tart and pungent.
“ ‘Highly productive and abundantly supplied as it was, the city furnished equipment of all kinds. The people themselves were clever and very shrewd….’ ” Hirtius’s voice droned on. I had trouble following him; my mind kept wandering. I felt a slight breeze coming from the open garden opening off the dining room; it was heavy and scented with unknown leaves, dusty and vaguely sweet.
Octavian started coughing, a high-pitched, fretful hacking. It was only then that I realized that his fragile beauty might be the result of illness. He had the transparent look of a consumptive. Hirtius paused until the boy had got control of himself.
Then he continued, “ ‘Yet, as far as I am concerned, had I now the task of championing the Alexandrians and proving them to be neither deceitful nor foolhardy, it would be a case of many words spent to no purpose: indeed, when one gets to know both the breed and its breeding, there can be no doubt whatever that as a race they are extremely prone to treachery.’ ”
“I object!” said Ptolemy shrilly. “Why do you say such things?”
“I believe what Hirtius meant to say was—” began Caesar.
“No, let Hirtius speak for himself!” Ptolemy insisted.
Hirtius looked around to be rescued. “It is a well-known fact that the mob of Alexandria is volatile, violent, and fickle,” he said. “Even in peacetime, they riot! Isn’t that true?” He turned to me.
“Yes,” I had to admit. “They are difficult to rule. Ever since they more or less deposed”—how I hated that word!—“Ptolemy the Tenth, they have grown ever more strident. When I was a child they rioted because a Ro
man had inadvertently killed a cat. When I came to the throne, they had got much worse. They drove me from the throne. By the time Caesar fought them in the Alexandrian War, they had become almost ungovernable. Now they have met their master.”
“In other words,” said Brutus, “Caesar arrived to put down the people, to force something on them they did not wish?”
“You make them sound like heroes,” I said. “These same heroic people are the ones who turned on their benefactor Pompey, and slew him when he came seeking refuge on our shores. They are not noble, merely traitors who disregard all moral laws.”
“It was not the people who killed Pompey,” he insisted, “but a corrupt palace faction.”
“Supported by the people,” I said stubbornly. One would have to have grown up in Alexandria to understand it. This Brutus had all sorts of misguided ideas about things he had never seen.
“And this corrupt faction embraced some of the royal family; one of them is to pay the price by being led a captive in the Triumph, and the other has paid with his life,” said Servilia. As she spoke she moved her head vigorously, and her two enormous pearl earrings swung to and fro.
Caesar’s eye was caught by them, and his voice softened. “I see you still enjoy the treasures of Britain,” he said.
Brutus looked down at his mulberries and fell abruptly silent.
“Is it true you invaded Britain just to satisfy Servilia’s love of pearls?” asked Octavia. Her question was straightforward and seemingly lacking in malice, but it was shocking nonetheless.
“Who started such stupid gossip?” said Caesar. “People will not desist from spreading the most insulting and inane stories about me!”
“I—I did not start it,” said Octavia, her low, pleasing voice trembling.
“Then don’t repeat it!” he barked. “I would never conduct a military campaign to please anyone’s vanity, including my own. My gods! What do you take me for?” He struggled to beat his anger down. “I explored Britain and claimed her for Rome because I was called to do it. For the glory of Rome.”
Brutus opened his mouth to say something, then closed it in a hard, straight line.
A hot gust of wind came in, followed by a rumble in the distance. Hirtius’s papers rattled. Gamely he tried to continue his reading, but a clap of thunder drowned him out. Suddenly the thunder sounded as if it were right here in the garden.
“My friends,” said Caesar, “perhaps we should cease with the recitation and allow you to return home before the storm comes. These summer thunderstorms can be severe.”
Everyone rose hastily. Giving Caesar profuse thanks, they did not linger. One by one they said farewell to me as well—Servilia and Octavia kindly, Brutus and Calpurnia curtly. Octavian said he would be pleased to show me about, or to answer any questions, whenever I wished. I assured him I would send for him later, thanking him. He coughed his way out the door, accompanied by Agrippa.
There remained only Ptolemy, Hirtius, and me. Caesar said, “Dear Hirtius, thank you for your recitation. I will send both you and Ptolemy home in the litter; I myself will see to the Queen’s safe return.”
“But—” began Ptolemy.
“Go with him,” I said. “The storm is going to break any moment.” Even as I spoke, a gigantic clap of thunder boomed out.
We were alone in the room; Calpurnia must have departed upstairs. A blast of wind, carrying loose leaves, flapped the doors against the wall. They hit so hard they chipped some of the deep blue-green fresco, depicting a seaside, behind them. Outside, bright streaks of lightning appeared, stabbing the air and illuminating the garden, with its statuary, in blue light.
I shivered. There was coldness wrapped in the mantle of the hot gushes of air. I had never seen thunderbolts before, even though our Ptolemaic coins all carried the picture of an eagle with thunderbolts in his talons. I was not prepared for the power of them.
Caesar stood next to me, watching.
“Thank you for the dinner,” I said. “It was—”
“Unpleasant,” he finished for me. “Yet it was necessary. Now all of you have seen one another; curiosity has been satisfied.”
“Why did you invite Brutus? He is not of your family.”
“No, in spite of idiotic rumors that he is my son!” He sounded disgusted. “Yet in some ways I feel as if he were…as if, had I a grown son, I would wish him to be like Brutus.”
“Why?” He had seemed so dour, so lacking in any human vivacity.
“He has a purity about him that’s rare. His outside is the same as his inside.”
“His outside is so off-putting that one has no desire to get to know his inside,” I said.
“He can be charming when he wishes,” said Caesar.
“Obviously tonight he did not wish to be,” I said. “And what do you mean, people say he is your son?”
“Long ago Servilia was in love with me,” he said. “And I was very fond of her.”
“So that’s why Brutus disapproves of you.”
“No, it’s more than that. He’s so high-minded he would never allow such a base reason to color his behavior. I think it’s that—that he cannot forgive my pardoning him for joining Pompey’s forces. And he joined Pompey only out of principles having to do with the Republic, because he personally hated Pompey for killing his father.”
“What a mixed-up, complex man!” I said. “I would never wish such a son on you. Pray to all the gods that Caesarion is nothing like Brutus.”
“I do pray, dear Cleopatra, that our son is nothing like anyone who has yet lived,” he said. “I would not have him be a copy of anyone else.”
“Yet you said, in watching him, that he was your very self,” I said. “What did you mean?”
“I am not sure,” he said slowly. “I only know that in seeing him for the first time, I was overcome: a part of myself was sleeping, unawares, while I watched over him. I am afraid—that to have a child is to be a hostage to fate.”
“We are all that.”
“It is easier to bear for ourselves alone than for others.”
25
I would have answered, but a terrific blast of thunder made it impossible to talk. The house shook. We stood and watched the trees bending outside, their heavy limbs whipping up and down, and heard the deluge of water striking the ground like an army of javelins. I had grown up being told that our climate of Egypt was gentle, and that was one of its gifts, but I had never appreciated what that meant until I saw the fury of this Roman thunderstorm.
Caesar put his arm around me, and I leaned against him silently. I had not realized how weary I was until then; the dinner had been a strain. Now we were alone, but not really alone: Calpurnia was upstairs, doubtless straining her ears to hear us. In her place, I would have done so.
At length the rain tapered off, dying in fits and spurts. Parts of the garden were flooded, and the heavy smell of wet earth now swept in through the doors. The thunder rumbled away, trailing lightning from its skirts, and ragged clouds tore across the sky. An almost full moon burst out from its inky confines, and shone with an eerie light over the scattered leaves, soaked benches, and muddy puddles.
“Take a cloak,” he said, “and pull it up over your hair. I wish to show you something.”
A servant brought him one along with mine, and together we arranged them to cover our heads. He took my hand and guided me outside, to the shadow of the Temple of Vesta.
“Look,” he said, pointing down the length of the Forum. It lay in stark black and white, its shadows sharp and deep.
It was almost deserted. The lateness of the hour, and the wildness of the storm, had driven everyone away. Now, devoid of the crowds and noise, it took on the dignity and grandeur it had lacked during the busy afternoon. The temples and covered porticoes, the statues and commemorative columns, bespoke a splendor I had begrudged it earlier.
“This is the Via Sacra,” he said, tapping the pavement beneath our feet. “This is where I shall ride my chariot in the Tr
iumphs, on my way up to the Temple of Capitoline Jupiter. And there”—he pointed down to an area before a covered assembly hall—“is where the viewing stands will be set up for the dignitaries and leading citizens. You will be seated in the front seats, along with the rest of my family.” He seemed most anxious to point out to me the precise spot. “I am going to have silk awnings to protect you all from the sun—they will say it’s extravagant—to hell with them—in spite of the largesse that will be distributed, and all the games to entertain them—ungrateful dogs—there’s no pleasing them—”
“Stop!” I said. “You are agitating yourself for no reason.” His hand, which was holding the lantern, was shaking. I feared he was about to suffer an attack of his illness. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course.” He sounded annoyed. “I haven’t been troubled with—with that since just before the battle of Thapsus. It sought to prevent me from fighting, but I overcame it.” He paused. “I overcame it by willpower.”
I did not see how that could be, but I kept quiet.
“Thousands of people will be in the processions—the magistrates, the senators, captives, and my troops. And the booty! You won’t believe it! Wagons and wagons of it, mountains of gold and arms and jewels! And the sacrificial oxen—”
“We have all those things in Egypt,” I said. Indeed, it was the Egyptians who had perfected such parades and displays. I had long since grown accustomed to them.
We were walking along the Via Sacra, being careful to avoid the wide puddles everywhere. The moonlight came and went, fast-moving shadows of clouds rolling over the buildings. The Temple of Castor and Pollux, with its tall white columns, looked like a row of unearthly trees, revealed and then eclipsed again by the passing shadows.
“You sound jaded,” he said. “But this will impress even you.” He paused. “I have waited a long time for recognition for my achievement in Gaul.”
“I pray it is all you hope for,” I said.
We passed three men who had likewise ventured out for a walk. None of them glanced at us; none of them thought the two in plain cloaks could be anything but fellow citizens. They were speaking about the storm and something to do with a shopping stall: it was the same conversation one could have heard in any city in any country.
The Memoirs of Cleopatra Page 38