The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  The rest of us mounted on other elephants, sharing them. Ptolemy and I were on one, Octavian and Calpurnia on another, the other nephews on a third. Between the line of the rest, the dignitaries walked, then streaming out behind them, as far as the eye could see, came the people. The torchlight threw long, jumping shadows on them, knitting them into one big creature instead of thousands of separate ones. Ahead of us I could see the rain of flowers and tokens being showered on Caesar, could hear the shouts rise wherever he passed, sighing like people let out into the light after a long imprisonment.

  Caesar! Caesar! Caesar! they cried. Our joy, our savior, our life!

  The parade went through the Forum, retracing in jubilation the way of the Triumph, a throng of careless worshipers. They were fed, they were entertained, they were lovingly looked after by Caesar; they wanted for nothing.

  They escorted him to his house. He climbed down from the elephant, then stood for a moment in the doorway.

  “Good night, my friends all,” he said. “I thank you for this day.”

  Then he turned and went inside. The door shut gently.

  I waited a moment, then saw Calpurnia and Octavian enter behind him. I ached to follow, to be with him in this aftermath of his extraordinary day—often the most precious part of all, when it could be savored in private, but when the blood was still coursing with the victory of it.

  “Let us return to the villa,” I said to the man leading the elephant.

  I turned to Ptolemy. “We cannot enter. We do not belong with them tonight,” I explained. “It is their moment.”

  I would pass the night alone, excluded from Caesar’s private celebration. But so would his only son.

  26

  The sun rose in a cloudless sky the next morning, as if Caesar had ordered it to do so. The perfect weather meant that the expansive—and expensive—public exhibitions and celebrations surrounding each successive Triumph could go on unimpeded. Today it was to be theatrical performances in the morning, and Greek-style athletic contests in the afternoon in a temporary theater in the Campus Martius, while simultaneously patrician boys were to enact a mock battle called the Game of Troy elsewhere on the fields.

  In the Circus Maximus, hundreds of condemned prisoners and prisoners of war fought in a gigantic gladiatorial contest on the sands where the chariots had raced the day before. I was told that they fought together in companies, horsemen against horsemen, foot soldiers against foot soldiers, with a company of forty elephant-mounted warriors against one another. The sand was soaked with their blood. But I did not see it, nor did I wish to. The Roman appetite for blood bewildered me. All day long I could hear, from the upper windows of my chamber, the shouts and cries of the crowds, drinking in the violence as the sand drank in the blood.

  A sea of people had swarmed into Rome to feed on the excitement, the gore, and the free food. A city of tents had sprung up, so that the Rome I beheld from the summit of the hill was twice as big as when I had arrived. People lost their lives in the crush down there; some who had come merely to enjoy the death and violence ended up sharing it, trampled in the crush of bodies. Two senators were killed that way, as well as nameless others.

  I dreaded the next Triumph, the one celebrating Caesar’s victory in Egypt. I would have to watch as representations of my own country were paraded past me, would have to smile with approval at the subjugation depicted. All eyes would be on me, and I must not flinch. That was the only way to show that my regime was different, the true government of Egypt, the one in alliance with Rome. I almost hated Caesar for imposing this on me; I did not know if I could stand it. Yet stand it I must. His political judgment here was correct, however much it hurt to obey it.

  The Second Triumph, over Aegyptus: cool day, stiff breeze, racing clouds—very un-Egyptian weather. Again we were seated in the stands at the end of the Via Sacra; this time the silken sun-canopy whipped up and down in the wind. I had attired myself, and Ptolemy, in Greek-style clothes for the occasion. Let everyone remember that we were the descendants of Alexander’s general! No glittering headdress with cobras rearing on my forehead, no broad collar of Pharaonic jewels, no ostrich feathers. In me, today, there would be nothing exotic or foreign. A simple diadem, low across my forehead, was better than a crown—today.

  Again, the shouts as Caesar passed through the different stations of the city on his way to the Forum—then the sounds rising as he approached us. A movement came from the far end of the Forum as the musicians led the way of the procession. First came a company of native Egyptians blowing silver trumpets and beating on long drums, clashing cymbals and waving ivory clappers, followed by a retinue of dancers, oiled and leaping. Behind them walked a company of women wearing the thinnest linen gowns, shaking their sistrums and chanting. A sigh went up from the crowd; this was the mysterious east, brought to them in the Forum itself. Shaven-headed priests of Isis, trailing incense and intoning hymns to the goddess, followed.

  In contrast, the magistrates of Rome, bulky in their togas, stepped lively behind them, looking disdainful of the nonsense of Egypt.

  The wagons were coming! I braced myself to endure the sight of the treasures of Egypt heaped in them, even though Caesar had not taken them; indeed, I had given them. But who knew that? And they were just as thoroughly gone from Egypt, no matter how they got here. The first of them was heaving into view—an enormous, lumbering thing made of acanthus wood, a precious wood of our region. Inside it were arrayed gilded statues and mummy cases, small obelisks and scarves woven with jewels. The next cart, made with enormously thick wheels, contained the graywacke statue I had just given Caesar! I was thankful, then, that most of our art treasures were so heavy that no conqueror could cart them off. At least the pyramids and Sphinx were safe! And the great temples along the Nile, and the Lighthouse—

  But I spoke too soon. For next the Lighthouse itself appeared—a gigantic model of it, on a specially constructed wagon. Its top glowed red, and a light winked out of it. It was followed by a representation of the River Nile, a luxurious bearded reclining man of ample proportions, surrounded by crocodiles and horns of plenty.

  Next came the living spoils: animals from Egypt and Africa. There were crocodiles, rumbling along in their wooden cages, then panthers and ostriches, and finally the creature that excited everyone’s curiosity: a giraffe. There had never been one in Rome before, and the people were amazed by it. They cried out that it seemed to be half camel and half leopard, and asked how they had ever bred.

  Then the first of the prisoners came into view: a wax figure of Pothinus, chillingly accurate, rolled by in his own chariot. I had thought never to see his slick, evil face again. But his head was attached—something that could only happen in art and the imagination.

  His follow conspirator, Achillas, made his appearance, leering from a wagon in effigy.

  I shuddered. How those men had once held power over me! Now they were reduced to wax dummies before a jeering crowd. I began to understand the need that the Triumphs satisfied.

  “Vile eunuch!” People were spitting on Pothinus.

  “Killer! Killer! Killer!” A group rushed from the stands toward the effigy of Achillas. They pelted it with dung and offal. “You killed our Pompey!” They were about to wrench the dummy from its cart when soldiers stopped them.

  “Nay!” they said. “You must not rob others of the opportunity to spit on him!”

  Now the dead were replaced by the living. Dragging by me in chains was Ganymedes. His hair was long and matted, his face pale from his long imprisonment. No trace now of the elegant palace tutor.

  He flinched as waves of trash were thrown at him. Luckily he probably did not understand most of the Latin curses and abuse that were shouted at him. His eyes were dull; his spirit had long since been broken.

  And then—O ye gods! It was Arsinoe! She walked some fifty feet behind him, bound in silver chains. But her head was held high; it took all her effort not to bend under the weight of the chains, but she st
ood erect and walked with a sure pace. She was thin; her cheeks were gaunt and I could see the bones of her shoulders. The proud Arsinoe, a captive in a Roman Triumph, being led like a spoil through the Forum and thence to her death.

  It could have been I! I lowered my eyelids and let the image dim, and I could see myself, walking in her place, the vanquished. If I had sided against Rome…if fate had not favored me…

  Beside me, Ptolemy was crying. I clutched his hand. “Don’t look,” I said.

  But just then Arsinoe turned and looked at me, a riveting, direct gaze. Her eyes were drawn to mine and would not let me go. Hatred burned there, and anger leapt across the space separating us. I was the captive, held in her stare.

  She passed me by, her spirit already elsewhere, so it seemed. The crowd was now watching her, and sighs of sympathy rose in the air like currents. Hostile eyes turned on me. Suddenly I was the villain and she the wronged one.

  How could they forget so readily? Arsinoe had fought against Rome. But Romans had a soft spot for the underdog. They saw a beautiful princess in chains, and forgot Caesar. No taunts or rubbish followed her; a hushed, respectful silence descended.

  Files of sacrificial oxen followed in her wake, bound for death, and that just excited the crowd further. They moaned with pity. This poor princess, being led like one of the white oxen to her doom!

  Now Caesar appeared, resplendent. But he rode into a sullen arena, filled with low murmurs. The sight of his lictors and gold chariot did not stir people as it had the first time. There were a few shouts and cheers, sounding thin in the vast space. Some people threw vials of perfumed oil, and one landed on the rim of his chariot and broke. He seized the broken bottle and held it aloft.

  “Well done!” he cried. “I always say that my soldiers fight just as well stinking of perfume!”

  That brought the crowd around, changed the mood. They began shouting and stamping.

  “Is this Egyptian perfume?” he cried, seizing the moment.

  They roared with approval.

  “I tell you, the perfumes of Egypt are rich beyond imagining! And I have brought them all to you!” He waved expansively. “I shall distribute them along with your largesse! There’s cassia and camphor and oil of lilies!”

  Where was he going to get these on such short notice? I knew he had not procured any in Egypt!

  Octavian, riding behind him, was also dodging perfume flasks.

  “Cleopatra and her many-perfumed oils!” the crowd yelled.

  For an instant Caesar froze. Then he turned and presented me to the crowd with his extended arm. They screamed and stamped.

  Quickly he rode on. My face burned. I felt the presence of Calpurnia intensely, even though I could not see her. Octavian jerked his head back and kept looking straight ahead.

  The tramping of the soldiers’ feet drowned out all other sounds. They were shouting and singing in chorus the Cleopatra song again, now joined by the crowds. New verses were added:

  While the Lighthouse blazed

  and the soldiers gazed,

  Caesar spent his nights and days

  In his Cleopatra phase.

  I hated this! I hated it! How could Caesar endure it so good-naturedly? It was like being led in the Triumph himself.

  Days and nights were all the same,

  He sported himself until he was lame,

  He always knew how to play that game,

  And now he gives us the Queen to blame!

  Enough! I could stand no more of this! Was I supposed to laugh, as Caesar did? They were calling me a whore!

  At last the horrible procession passed by, and the Triumph was over. It was over.

  The spectacle to follow this Triumph was a naval battle—fought in Rome. Caesar sent a message to tell us that the customary litter would be sent for us, and that our presence was essential. As it had been for the Egyptian Triumph?

  This time the litters set out away from the Circus Maximus, and we were transported toward the river; the crowds were thick, and I could see the sites where they camped at night. There were fewer buildings here, but still I saw several small temples abutting on a huge, pillared complex that ended in a theater.

  “Why, it’s almost as big as one of our temples!” said Ptolemy in a shrill voice.

  What could it be? I must ask Caesar.

  Oh, if only that building had never existed! I shudder now to recall it; but then, in the sunlight, it seemed innocent enough. And is a building to blame for what evil men do inside it?

  “Where is that temple with enemy territory around it?” asked Ptolemy. “The one where the Romans throw blood-tipped spears to start a war?”

  I had to confess I did not know what he was talking about. Another thing to ask Caesar.

  Abruptly the litters were set down and our attendants helped us out. As we alighted, I thought my eyes were deceived. Before us was a lake, and upon it were true ships—biremes, triremes, and quadriremes, massed in two wings, banners flying. A gigantic crowd surrounded the entire basin of the lake, milling and shouting.

  A gallery had been built on stilts on the shore, and I could see Caesar and the knot of his family and attendants already grouped upon it.

  We mounted the platform and were shown our seats. From this height, the spectacle was even more miraculous. The artificial lake that had been excavated on the Campus Martius—the Field of Mars—must have been at least half a mile long, and who knew how deep? Obviously deep enough to accommodate warships.

  I saw Caesar watching my face, as if he had dug the entire thing just to see my reaction. I was stunned and could not hide it.

  I knew he would send Octavian over, and I was right. He made his way to us, his eyes watchful. “Greetings, Your Majesties,” he said. “We are pleased you could join us for this Triumph and its celebration.”

  Was it my imagination, or did he stress the word this, and look carefully at us?

  “It was necessary for us to behold it,” I said, being as honest as I could. “I do not pretend that it was not painful. It brought back many ugly memories.”

  “Caesar will be distressed to hear it. He is under the impression that you regarded those people as enemies, as did he. And the sight of an enemy in chains is usually an exhilarating one.”

  “Perhaps when you have actually fought a war, you will understand,” I said. He was just a boy and had never seen a battle, and his smugness was unpleasant to me at that moment. Yet I should have disguised my reaction better. “Tell me of this spectacle,” I said lightly. “Is there no engineering miracle the Romans cannot perform?”

  “None that I am aware of,” he replied, with that cold, perfect smile.

  This entertainment was to feature a naval battle between the fleets of Tyre and Egypt. Two thousand oarsmen and a thousand fighting men from each nation manned their respective ships, and, at the sound of trumpets, cast off from the spots where they rocked on the sparkling water. I assumed it was to be an exhibition only, but as smoke rose from one of the ships and men dived overboard, followed by groans and screams, I suddenly became aware that it was real.

  I turned to Octavian accusingly. “What is this? Are these men called upon to mimic fighting, or to fight?”

  “In a naumachia, great battles are reenacted—reenacted in all their particulars,” he said. “We have staged the battle of Salamis, with the Athenians defeating the Persians, and watched the Carthaginian fleet being destroyed again and again from the comfort of our seats.”

  “If a war is once fought, and an issue decided, is that not final?” I demanded. “What purpose is served in fighting it again? Will history’s verdict be reversed?”

  The ships were ramming one another; grapnels were hurled and soldiers swarmed onto enemy ships, swords flashing. Firebrands flew through the air, setting rigging aflame. Some of these missiles landed among the spectators, causing screams and panic.

  The ships swung around as the men on them struggled for mastery. I saw bodies being flung overboard, and dar
k stains of blood began to spread out on the water. The first ship sank, and screams rose from it and then drowned in silence.

  “Are men to die for our amusement?” I cried. I looked at the others on our platform, who were nodding and watching, smiles on their faces. Two men were conferring about the tactics, and I saw Agrippa arguing about some maneuver. Caesar looked pleasantly entertained.

  Blood, blood everywhere! Why did the sun not shine red on Rome, beaming through a haze of blood? Why did it rise an ordinary color?

  “Can there not be a chariot race without death, a sailing exhibition without death, a swordplay without death?” I tugged on Octavian’s shoulder, where the toga was bunched. “Why must death be a sauce to accompany everything you Romans devour?”

  Devour. That was the word for what they did. They devoured everything…and they needed a lively spice for their digestion.

  “Because without death everything is bland,” he said. “Without a final price, everything is make-believe.”

  Even as he spoke, his voice soft and reasonable against the background cries of wounded men and the shudders of ship timber against timber, I pictured Arsinoe being strangled in the dark, airless stone prison cell. Death in the sunlight and death in the dark—the two kinds of Roman death.

  Abruptly I left the “entertainment.”

  I assume the naumachia lasted until after sunset. As it got dark, from the top of the highest part of the villa’s hill I could see winking torches in the Campus Martius. I also could see what looked like bonfires, but from their sheer size I knew they were the burning hulks of ships. The spectacle had consumed itself.

  I felt sick and exhausted. I wished to bathe and then stretch myself out on my bed and purge my mind of the hideous images that were racing through it. But before I could do so, the door of the house flew open and Caesar stamped in. His face was a mask of anger.