“Why are you dressed as Hercules?” I asked, to deflect the curious ears.
“Why, is this not a costume party? Do you mean to tell me you dress this way daily? I came as my ancestor, for I’m descended from Hercules—as everyone knows.”
“Yes, as everyone knows,” parroted the woman.
“May I present Cytheris, the foremost actress of Rome?” said Antony innocently.
Fulvia glided over and said, “My dear Antony, I have hoped to speak with you—” and guided him off forcibly.
Valeria could not suppress a laugh. “So he brought that actress. Does he have no restraint? It is hardly the way to win back Caesar’s favor.”
Where was Caesar? I began to long for him. The party was becoming overwhelming, and there was no one to direct it—although Antony and his actress friend would doubtless relish trying.
Octavian approached, boys near his own age on each side. He actually had a smile on his face, and seemed relatively lighthearted.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “You remember Agrippa?” Beside him, Agrippa nodded. “And my friends Publius Vergilius Maro and Quintus Horatius Flaccus.”
Two pale faces stared at me, as if they were bewildered by the sight.
“I am called Horace,” said one, the sturdier one.
“And I am known amongst my friends as Vergil,” said the older, slighter one. “I must tell you, Your Majesty, I am greatly enamored of the Alexandrian mode of poetry.”
“They have come to Rome to study,” said Octavian. “All of us country boys seem to be drawn here. But afterward Horace will go to Athens, to the university there. Perhaps I’ll follow him.”
I thought to myself that Octavian would probably be best suited to a scholarly life. I assumed he would spend his adult years espousing some field of philosophy or history, and writing manuscripts no one would ever read.
The boys drifted away, and I saw Octavia bringing someone over. He was a tall, impressive man who was actually flattered by the lines of a toga.
“I wish to present to you Vitruvius Pollio,” she said, excitedly.
The man bowed low. “Your Majesty, I am honored,” he said.
“He is dear to Caesar as an arms expert,” Octavia said. “But he is dear to all Rome as an architect and engineer. He understands the mysteries of water, of wood, of stone, and translates them for us.”
“I had the honor to serve Caesar in his campaigns in Gaul and Africa.”
Africa! So he had been present in that last, grueling war. I was grateful for whatever he had done to bring about its success. Certainly Caesar owed a great deal to his military engineers.
“Caesar is blessed to have men like you at his side,” I said.
Another woman was wandering about alone. I saw her as she entered the doorway, but she was searching the crowd for someone. There was something in her bearing that made me curious about her, and I pointed her out to Valeria.
“Ah, that’s Clodia,” she said. “I thought she was dead!” She shook her head. “Clodia was Catullus’s and Caelis’s mistress—not at the same time, of course. Now they’re both dead, and she’s not so young herself. She must be looking for another lover, and what better place to look than a party?”
I was puzzled by the Roman freedom—and lack of it—granted to women. They did not have their own names, but had to take versions of their father’s. They were married off callously to make political alliances, and were divorced just as casually. They held no public office, nor could they command troops. Yet they themselves could instigate a divorce, and they could own property. They accompanied their husbands to social gatherings, unlike Greek women, and seemed to have their menfolk well in tow.
Married women also had love affairs, so it seemed—the virtuous, respected Servilia; Mucia, the wife of Pompey—were there others? But the men could carry them on openly, whereas the women could not. And what of women like Cytheris and Clodia? And why must “Caesar’s wife be above suspicion,” whereas Caesar himself could carry on openly?
And was I, a foreign queen, exempt from these mores?
Trumpets sounded, and a hush fell. Caesar strode into the room.
Even though he was not the tallest or biggest man there, the ranks gave way before him. People backed away to give all the space to him. For an instant complete silence surrounded him, as if he were ringed by stones.
“Welcome, friends! Welcome all!” he said in a ringing voice, and suddenly sound sprung up all around him.
He was alone. Calpurnia was not with him. Was that why he had come so late?
“Egyptian music!” he commanded, and the musicians took up their playing again, the unfamiliar—to the Romans—chords filling the hall.
He turned and stared at me, his face not registering any emotion. Was it a good silence, or a bad one? One never knew with him.
“The Queen of Egypt presides,” he announced. “The Queen reigns over this feast.” He took his place next to me.
“You look like a whore,” he whispered in my ear.
“This villa looks like a brothel,” I whispered back. “I took my cue from you.”
He laughed. “I think it is your boldness I always love best,” he said.
“Why did you choose to depict Egypt in such a fashion?” I demanded.
“I told you in my note,” he replied. “What we scorn, we do not desire.”
“What about whores?” I asked.
He looked surprised.
“I mean, the highest men seem to consort with them, even if they shun them in public. They are highly scorned, yet highly desired.”
Clodia drifted by, giving Caesar a conspiratorial look.
“Such as Clodia,” I said. “And Antony has brought an actress whom everyone is leering at.”
“Antony would be naked without an actress everyone is leering at.” He turned to Valeria. “Thank you for helping. I trust that you enjoyed the task.”
She smiled. “Gossip is always a pleasure.” She detached herself and disappeared into the crowd.
The feast table was laid, with a lidded crocodile skin serving to hold piles of fruit—cherries, pears, apples, sweet figs and dates, pomegranates. Huge rimmed platters swam with such sea creatures as squid and sea urchins and oysters. Stuffed boars looked at us forlornly, their gilded bristles drooping. People swarmed around the table, stuffing themselves, washing down the food with enormous quantities of wine. The noise rose, casting us adrift in a sea of voices.
At the end of the meal, the sarcophagus was wheeled into the hall by “Anubis.”
“In the midst of this feasting, it is good to remember the eternal,” he wheezed. “Hear what the dead are telling us!” he stood back and recited. “Follow thy heart’s desire while still thou remainest! Pour perfume on thy head; let thy garment be of the finest linen, anointed with the true most wondrous substances among things divine.”
He did a little shuffling dance. “Do that which is pleasing to thee more than thou didst aforetime; let not thy heart be weary. Follow thy heart’s desire and that which is well pleasing in thine eyes. Arrange thine affairs on earth after the will of thy heart, until to thee cometh that day of lamentation on which that god whose heart standeth still heareth not thy wail.”
He leaned over the sarcophagus and spoke to the mummy. “Weeping obtaineth not the heart of a man who dwelleth in the grave. On! Live out a joyful day; rest not therein.”
The mummy started to groan and stir; the bandages heaved with breath. People were disturbed, even though they knew perfectly well it was a performance. The sight of the dead stirring is distressing.
“Lo! It hath not been granted to man to take away with him his belongings.” Behind him, the mummy threw a stiff leg out over the side of the coffin. Its fellow followed. The mummy lurched upright.
“Lo! There is none who hath gone hence and returned hither.” Then Anubis turned and saw the mummy, and let out a howl. He threw up his hands and then yanked on the strip of linen sticking up from the mummy’
s shoulder. The mummy spun and turned, unwinding himself.
“Free! Free!” he cried joyfully. Then he began turning cartwheels, stiffly. He ran back to the sarcophagus, dug out handfuls of gold coins, and began flinging them to the crowd. “Spend it for me!” he ordered them. “I’m not going back in there!”
Now, with the crowd in a playful mood, Caesar led a group out to the Sphinx.
“Ask of him your deepest concerns!” he said, thumping his rump.
“Will Clodia get another man?” yelled someone into the mouth of the Sphinx.
“I see many sleepless nights for Clodia,” said a muffled voice within.
“That’s not fair!” said Caesar. “You can ask only for yourself, not someone else.”
“Oh, I am asking for myself!” the man answered blearily.
Lepidus approached and asked it quietly, “Will I lead troops again?”
“Yes, more than you would wish,” was the prompt reply, startling Lepidus.
“Will the Republic be restored?” asked Cicero in ringing tones. A hush fell over the room.
“As Heraclitus says, ‘You cannot step twice into the same waters, for other waters are ever flowing over you.’ ”
“Yes, I know that!” said Cicero irritably. “There will be different men, but what of the institution?”
“Only one question, Cicero,” bellowed Antony.
Cicero glared at him and turned his back.
“Now I’ll ask one!” roared Antony. “Have my fortunes reached their highest peak?”
“Your fortune is only in the foothills,” came the reply. “You have not known your fortune yet.”
“Come out and show yourself,” I demanded. Who was this man? Was he truly a soothsayer, or just an actor?
Slowly the Sphinx’s head was raised, and a dark-skinned man peered out. He was frightening to look at, he was so wizened and sunburnt. “Your Majesty?” he asked. “What question will you put to me?” I knew he was not an actor.
How could I phrase the question whose answer I most longed for? I would not ask it so publicly.
“Will Egypt be blessed by the gods in my lifetime?” I finally asked.
“Yes, by many gods,” he said. “By gods in the sky, and by gods standing in this very room.”
I felt a violent shaking trying to take hold of me. I dared not let it show. But what gods did he mean? Standing in this very room….
Nay, it was a foolish answer, an answer that told nothing. Just as my question had not been direct, neither had its answer. Nothing comes of nothing.
“Now that all are silent,” said Caesar, holding up his hands, “I wish to give you my thanks for coming to honor Egypt and myself. Yesterday we celebrated a Triumph over rebel forces in Egypt. Today we honor its Queen and King, Cleopatra and Ptolemy, and here in your presence do solemnly name them and enroll them as Friend and Ally of the Roman People—Socius Atque Amicus Populi Romani.”
The company cheered as the gesture, for which this entire evening had been preparation, was enacted.
“Let no one question their loyalty!” cried Caesar. Again, a dutiful cheer went up.
Now was the moment. Now! I nodded to Charmian, who in turn nodded to Caesarion’s nurse. She quickly left the room.
Caesar, Ptolemy, and I stood before the people, and in order to hold them there at attention I began a speech—a somewhat rambling one, I am afraid. But soon enough the newly awakened Caesarion was brought to me, dressed in kingly robes, and rubbing his wide eyes.
“This is Egypt’s greatest treasure,” I said, taking him in my arms. “And I lay him at your feet, Caesar.”
I placed the child on the floor before the hem of Caesar’s robe. An immense silence fell over the crowd. Well I knew that if Caesar picked him up, he was acknowledging him as his own. But did they know I knew? Or did they just assume I thought I was presenting a vassal prince to Caesar? It was up to Caesar to act. It was his action I cared about, not the people’s.
Caesar was deadly quiet. I knew then he was angry, very angry. I had tricked him, and that was unforgivable. But, unlike other men, Caesar was always able to think clearly through his anger. He was able to set it aside if necessary, so that anger was never the basis for his actions.
He stared down at Caesarion, his mouth set in a tight line. “And what do you call this treasure?” he asked in flat, measured words.
“He is named Ptolemy Caesar—Caesar,” I said loudly.
People murmured, for it sounded as if I were stuttering. The two names were the same, deliberately linked.
Caesar watched while Caesarion reached out and touched his sandal. Then he bent down and picked him up. He held him aloft and slowly moved him from side to side so everyone could see.
“Ptolemy Caesar,” he said clearly. “I believe you are known as Caesarion—Little Caesar. Let it be so.” He handed him back to me. He did not look at me, but did touch the child’s cheek.
“We are grateful, Caesar,” I said. “We are yours forever.”
“How did you dare to do this?” Caesar’s eyes were blazing. We were alone in the empty atrium. Food and trash lay all over the floor.
“I had to,” I said. “This was the moment. All were gathered, it was a celebration of Egypt—”
“You tricked me,” he said. “You have acted like a slave girl.”
“If I did, it was because you treated me as one.” When he started to argue, I cut him off. “I am not just some slave girl, to bear bastard sons to her master! I am a queen! You made me your wife in a ceremony at Philae! How dare you ignore our son?”
“Because he has no legal standing in Rome,” said Caesar. “Can’t you understand that? What was the point of it?”
“There is a place where the legal ends and the moral begins,” I said. “By not acknowledging him publicly, you insulted me and him. It has nothing to do with legality. What, do you think I am concerned about his inheriting your property? He, who will inherit all the treasures of the Ptolemies?”
“If I allow him to,” he reminded me. “If I allow Egypt to remain independent.”
“I hate you!” I screamed.
“You don’t hate me. You hate the truth of the situation, which is just as I have described it. Now lower your voice. We cannot help the situation. I cannot give Egypt back her Pharaohs. Nor would I wish to. Things are as they are, and we might not flourish in any other times as we do here.”
“And you do flourish,” I said. He flourished like a great cedar, towering above all others.
But I was satisfied. Words aside, I had achieved my aim. In front of all Rome, Caesar had acknowledged our son. The trip to Rome had been worth it.
27
A day’s respite: then the Pontic Triumph. The crowds had grown, a thing which I had not thought possible. News of the extravagance and spectacle had spread, bringing in spectators from farther afield. At each event, Caesar was expected to outdo his last effort, and people strained to see it.
Again we sat in silk-shaded stands and waited. This day was not particularly fair; rain was threatening. Thunder had rumbled all night, causing people to rush to the statues of Jupiter and see if he manifested any signs. But nothing had happened; no statue had fallen, or turned itself, or been shattered. And the day went forward, with no hindrance from Jupiter.
This time the musicians played Asian instruments—arched harps, rattles, round tambours, zithers, and goblet-shaped drums. A company of sword dancers followed, leaping and bending. Again the Roman magistrates marched, and then the booty wagons lurched into the Forum. These were decorated with tortoiseshell, and exhibited piles of gold platters, small mountains of raw amber, lapis lazuli from the region bordering Pontus, bows and arrows of exquisite workmanship, horse bridles with bells, chariot wheels with scythes gleaming from their axles.
A howl of laughter rose at the far end of the Forum, and soon I saw what was causing it: no effigy of Pharnaces, just a picture of him fleeing, panic-stricken, before the Roman armies. His mouth was open
in a cry, and his huge, comically turned eyes made him a caricature of cowardice.
A long pause, an empty space. Then, all by itself, came a wagon with a gigantic sign, the letters emblazoned in scarlet: VENI VIDI VICI. Those three words stood for all of Pontus, as if it did not even deserve a representation of its cities, its terrain, its monuments. It had all been reduced in an instant by Caesar, who had taken only four hours to defeat the enemy.
This banner served as the messenger for Caesar, whose chariot now followed. He was wreathed in amiable good humor, as if that battle had been an afternoon’s entertainment for him, as it was for the citizens now. Cheers resounded throughout the Forum, and he basked in them.
The soldiers followed, yelling their bawdy verses, and the crowds roared with delight.
The entertainments given to celebrate this victory were more subdued than at the other Triumphs. The sons of the allies in Bithynia and Pontus gave an exhibition of Pyrrhic sword dances. Magicians and acrobats swallowed fire and leapt through flames. Of course, the theatrical performances and gladiatorial contests continued as usual.
Now must come the last of them, the African Triumph. Because it was the final celebration, people were both impatient and critical, jaded and sated. And it required delicate political posturing, for the African War was part of the Roman civil wars. Victory had been achieved over other Romans, not foreign enemies.
Caesar had elected not to celebrate his victory over Pompey on these very grounds, for to do so would have given offense to the many who had supported Pompey and still respected him. And it was thought unseemly to rejoice in the death of fellow citizens. But in this case, his caution seemed to have deserted him. Perhaps he had reached the end of his patience with the civil war, or perhaps he wished to let this stand as a warning to those who might yet harbor rebellious ideas. He went ahead with the African Triumph, using the defeat of King Juba of Numidia as a disguise, as if the war had been against the foreigner only. In fact, he stressed the shameful fact that Romans had served under the king, when the truth was they had served together.
The Memoirs of Cleopatra Page 43