Laurel. I was sure it was not the same leaves as the Romans used in their laurel wreaths, but some of the symptoms sounded similar: unquenchable thirst—for glory; burning inside—for power; stomach pains—gut churning from envy and strife.
“Is there no antidote?” I asked, more for my allegorical illness than for the real one.
“Antidote? Only in trying to help the victim vomit up the poison. And often that seems to harm him as well.”
So. Once you were afflicted with it—once the laurel wreath went on your head, you were doomed.
“Let us leave these poisons behind,” I said. “Show us the other side of the garden, the side that cures.”
Ptolemy made a face. “Oh, that’s boring!” And he paid little attention to the beds of healing plants—to the wormwood, henna, labdanum, tragacanth, ginger grass, balsam trees, aloe, and spikenard.
“Now here,” said Olympos, “is the corner of the garden where the plants have both properties. Like the bitter apple.” He waved at a vine on the ground, just finished flowering and budding with baby gourds. “In small amounts, the fruit can be used to kill insects or induce miscarriage. In large amounts, it makes a messy, painful death.”
“Please don’t use it on us,” Ptolemy said.
“And here is the famous, mythical mandrake,” said Olympos. He pointed to a plant with fleshy, wrinkled leaves growing in spokes from a central stem. Purple blossoms nestled in the middle. “The love apple. It induces desire in its…victim? Or beneficiary?” He laughed. “In addition, it aids in conception. But, in large doses, it causes stupor, purging, and death. Unfortunately, it can’t be mixed with wine, so any seducer can offer wine to his partner, but cannot partake himself—lest his love potion turn into a death potion.”
“I thought there was something strange about its root,” I said.
“Yes, it looks like a—a phallus,” said Olympos. “And supposedly it shrieks when it is pulled up from the earth.”
“Like a phallus?” I could not help laughing. “I never heard one shriek.”
Olympos actually looked embarrassed, and Ptolemy turned bright red. Then they both burst out laughing.
“It would make a good scene in a Greek comedy,” Olympos finally said.
With that, we were all ready to quit the garden. I took one last look at the mandrake, lying there on the ground so innocently, and laughed again.
That evening I took a quiet supper in my chambers with Charmian, Iras, Ptolemy, and little Caesarion, who was now learning to eat with manners.
“As King someday, you must endure many banquets,” I told him, tucking a napkin into the neck of his tunic. Banquets were not the least onerous duty of a monarch. How many ways could oysters be prepared and presented, and how many cries of delight could one give in a lifetime? “Now you recline thus….”
The light was fading, and oil lamps were lit. I felt a sad listlessness, a letdown. In some ways I did feel like an alien here. Rome had changed my view of the world; what had once seemed entirely sufficient and happily self-contained here now seemed isolated and neglected.
But that is nonsense, I thought. It’s not neglected at all—thousands of ships pass through our port, and goods from all over the world converge here before continuing their journey. Silk, glass, papyrus, marble, mosaics, drugs, spices, metalwork, rugs, pottery—all are funneled through Alexandria, the greatest trading center in the world.
But still, it seemed quiet. Perhaps it was only that normal life seemed quiet after the steady progression of intrigues, coups, murders, and revolutions that had begun in my eleventh year.
Isn’t it a miracle that you are sitting here now, undisputed Queen of an independent Egypt, eating a serene meal? I lectured myself, like a stern teacher to his students. And being able to tell Ptolemy truthfully there would be no poisoned bread at his table? Your country is pacified, content, prosperous. What ruler could ask for more? And who started life with less chance of achieving it?
“…mandrake plant.”
A conversation had been going on all the time, and I had not heard a word.
“Why are you talking to yourself?” asked Ptolemy. “I see your lips moving. And you aren’t listening!”
“My mind was wandering,” I admitted. “I am still on board that ship in many ways.”
Charmian cast me a sympathetic look. She knew what I meant, and it did not refer to the waves nor being shaky walking on dry land.
“I should think you’d be glad to be off that smelly old thing!” he retorted. “Now tell them about the mandrake—and about that plant with the fuzzy button flowers that makes you contort up, until you look like a Gordian knot!”
“He was quite taken with the poisonous plants in Olympos’s garden,” I said. “He ignored the healing ones. And you’ve made up the part about the Gordian knot—Olympos did not say that!”
“Well, he should have.” Ptolemy picked at his food. “All this makes me lose my appetite.”
“We have to get the tasters back,” I said. Our faithful food-tasters had retired—it was a nerve-racking occupation, and no one did it for very long. After they returned to their hometowns, they usually let their food impulses run wild, eating anything that took their fancy, day or night.
“Yes, my lady,” said Iras. “There is much to be done, now that you are back for good.”
Back for good. Why did the whole world, even my wonderful realm, feel so desolate to me? All these people gathered here looked to me for strength and shelter, of one sort or another. And I would provide it, I would provide it…and may they never know how unsheltered their shelterer truly felt.
After supper, I asked Mardian to come to me. I needed to speak to him alone. When he entered the chamber, I was so pleased to see him, I almost laughed. He had grown stout, as I noted earlier, and soon would look like other eunuchs. I hated to see it, but there was nothing to be done. I could hardly forbid him food or order him to restrict himself. And I guessed that dainties of the table were a way of rewarding himself from the strain of having to carry the weight of the government for two years. At least I could rest assured that he wasn’t rewarding himself, like so many ministers, by stealing from my treasury.
“Dear Mardian, I am more grateful than I can say to have a minister like you. Very few rulers can have been so blessed.”
He smiled, and his big, square-shaped face lit up. “It is an honor to be given the responsibility, and I shouldered it gladly. However”—he took the seat I indicated—“I am relieved to have you back.” He settled down, and arranged the folds of his gown, wiggling his feet in bejeweled sandals. “A new style from Syria,” he said. “The merchant had to surrender a pair as part of the customs duty.” He smiled wickedly.
They were most opulent. I thought of the austere Roman ones, and suddenly Octavian’s built-up ones flashed through my mind. I laughed. “They are very becoming,” I said. Mardian had no need of extra-thick soles, for he had grown quite tall. Poor Octavian—to be shorter than an Egyptian eunuch! “And your gown—is the fringe a new style as well?” Fashion never stood still here in the east.
“Oh, it became popular last year,” he said. “The fringes are actually reputed to come from Parthia. But of course we don’t admit it!”
“I have grown quite out of fashion, like an old tune,” I said, with wonder. “I will need to have new clothes.”
“That should be an enjoyable task.”
“More enjoyable than poring over the reports and summaries, and meeting all the new ambassadors.”
“That is what makes you a good queen—you have the fortitude to endure it,” said Mardian.
“Mardian, I need to know how my absence was looked on here.” I trusted him to be honest with me.
“In the palace? Why—”
“No, not in the palace. In Alexandria, and in Egypt herself. I know you always have your ear to the ground, and your family is in Memphis. What did people think?”
“They wondered if you were coming back,�
� he said bluntly. “They thought—they feared—you might remain in Rome, that that would be the price of Egypt’s independence.”
“What, that Caesar would hold me prisoner?”
He looked horrified. “No, of course not. But that it would take a constant monitoring—and mollifying—of the fickle Senate, which cannot be done from far away.”
“And what did they think of my liaison—my marriage—with Caesar?”
He shrugged. “You know Egyptians—Greeks too. They are practical. They were proud that you’d selected a winner, not a loser, in the civil wars.”
Yes, it was the Romans who were obsessed with morality. The older peoples of the east had more wisdom. “At least I don’t have to contend with that. Mardian, you cannot imagine what it is to live for two years among a people who do nothing but judge, moralize, lecture, and condemn. It’s more than the climate that’s gray and oppressive there!” Until I had said it, I had not quite realized the weight of that crushing mantle of judgment. Suddenly I felt quite giddy to be out from under it.
“Ugh!” he said, making a face. “Well, now you are back where we understand you. And treasure you. Welcome home!”
Home…but why, why, did it feel so odd?
“Thank you, Mardian. I longed for it all the time I was away.”
He paused, as if wondering whether to speak further. Finally he did. “I must tell you, though, that now that things have—changed—there are those who will say that your policy was a failure, that your efforts have achieved nothing lasting for Egypt. It all vanished on the Ides of March, and we are back where we were before Caesar even came here. Who can guarantee our independence now?”
“I will guarantee it. I must.” But I felt as though I had climbed an enormous mountain range only to find myself not on a fertile plain, but facing another range just as high. A second climb would be almost beyond imagining. And then there was the other thing.
“Mardian, I must tell you of what I discovered on the voyage. I am with child. There will be another ‘Caesarion’—a little Caesar.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, that will upset the balance of politics once again. How do you manage to affect people, and lands, hundreds of miles away? It’s your peculiar magic.”
“I doubt that it will change things in Rome. Caesar did not mention Caesarion in his will, and this one will have even less claim.”
“Don’t be so sure. I would guard Caesarion well. It was all very well to joke with Ptolemy about the poisonous plants, but it’s Caesarion whom someone would have a reason to kill.”
I felt cold. It was true. Caesar’s will or not, the world knew about his son. And my own father had been illegitimate. The royal bastard, perpetual threat, was not only a stock figure in stories and poems, but he often attained the throne.
Was Octavian capable of murder? He seemed too squeamish and law-abiding. But…
“By leaving no Roman heir, Caesar left three—now you say four—contenders for his name. The adopted son, Octavian; his cousin, Marc Antony, the natural successor to his military and political legacy; Caesarion, his natural son by a non-Roman; and now another.” He paused. “Of course, he has another heir—the mob, the Roman people. It was they to whom he appealed, they to whom he left his villa and gardens. Don’t leave them out of any political calculations. It’s they who will decide if Caesar is to be a god, not the Roman Senate.”
“I cannot wish that my children inherit any of the mess at Rome. I just wish they could have known their father as they grew up. And I wish I had something of his—besides just this pendant.” I held it out to show it to Mardian. “It was a piece of family jewelry. But I wish he had given me something for Caesarion, as well.”
“Well, all he will have to do is go into any forum or temple throughout the Roman world, and he’ll see a statue of him. They’ll make a god out of him, mark my words. Then there’ll be busts, and little statues and plaques, available from every hawker and merchant from Ecbatana to Gades!”
Dear, irrepressible Mardian! “He can start a collection!” I said, tears of laughter welling up as I pictured a shelf full of Caesar statues, all sizes and shapes. There would be muscular naked Greek Caesars, Syrian Caesars with big eyes and formal robes, desert Caesars mounted on camels, Pharaoh-Caesars, Gallic Caesars clad in wolfskins.
I held my sides and bent over. When I could finally catch my breath, I said, “Oh, Mardian. This is the first time I have truly laughed since—” I shook my head. “Thank you.”
He wiped his eyes. “Since everything passes through Alexandria, think of the duty. We shall profit by the fashion!”
37
A high, breezy day in June, when all of Alexandria was an aquamarine set in silver, so bright that I had to shield my eyes.
Today the mosaic Caesar had given me was being installed in the floor of my banqueting hall. My memory had been correct; when I had first seen it I had known it was the exact same colors as the sea at Alexandria, and so it was. The form of Venus rising from the seafoam was rendered so finely that it made all mortal women look crudely executed, disappointing.
I sighed. Was art to inspire us, or depress? Was the fact that no living woman could ever approach such perfection to inspire me to come as close to my own perfection as possible, or did it merely throw all my shortcomings into high relief?
Today, with the glorious light and strong fresh breezes of the morning, I felt inspired by her. Once I had felt this newly created, once I had felt I had just emerged from a sea, eager to stand on the shore and claim my inheritance, my destiny. Would I ever feel that way again?
Her golden hair waved in tendrils over her shoulders, so skillfully depicted that I could see the muscles and delicate roundings in the flesh.
How old are you? I asked her, in my mind. Fifty years? A hundred? You would look very different by now if you were flesh instead of stone. Art cheats truth that way.
“I remember when it was presented.” Charmian’s husky voice behind me made me jump. The sound of the workmen’s chisels had drowned out her footsteps.
“It is magnificent, isn’t it?” We both looked at Venus, envying her. “You look more like her than I do,” I said. “You have the right hair color.”
“No one looks like her,” said Charmian. “That’s why she has the power she does.”
Charmian herself had a Venus-like allure. I had seen how men looked at her, like lovesick schoolboys, even the old scribes.
“Charmian,” I said, “I think you should consider marrying. It does not mean you cannot continue in my service. I cannot help but feel sorry for the man who would have been your husband—but you pass him by.”
She laughed, that beguiling, low laugh. “I have been thinking of it,” she admitted. “But I have found no mortal man yet. You see, just as Venus spoils most women for men, just so Apollo ruins other men for women. I’d like someone like the statues of Apollo, and, well—have you seen any about?”
Yes, I thought: Octavian. But, unlike a statue, he talked, moved, and exhibited unpleasant characteristics. “No, not recently.”
“Ever?” She persisted.
“Probably not ever,” I assured her, lest she think I was hiding one. “But I will look harder from now on.”
A grunting pair of workmen wrenched a stone out of the floor, and shoved it to the side. They were grinning, and I realized they had overheard us. Did they fancy themselves to resemble Apollo?
One had a hairy back, more like Pan than Apollo, and the other was so short, with long forearms, that he looked like an ape.
Barely able to keep from laughing, we hurried from the hall. As we rounded the door, we leaned against the wall and let ourselves laugh silently.
When I said, “That reminds me, where is my monkey, Kasu?” it sent Charmian into hysterics.
“I am serious,” I insisted.
“I think—I think—Iras has her in her chambers,” gulped Charmian. “She was fond of her.”
We were standing on the steps of th
e palace, which led directly to the private royal harbor. Directly overhead the gulls were flying, white against the sky.
“Let’s go for a boat ride,” I suddenly said. It was too fine to be indoors today. “No, not sailing, something more—languorous. Where we can lie and look at the colors of the sea and sky.” I had all manner of boats to choose from—a pleasure barge, a small sailboat, a shaded raft, a replica of a Pharaonic boat. That I had come to enjoy being on the water was a tribute to my determination of will—perhaps my most characteristic, and valuable, trait. Will can serve when talent, inspiration, and even luck desert us. But when will deserts us, then we are doomed indeed….
Charmian was eager. “I have never been on the Pharaonic boat,” she hinted. “The one with the lotus-bud prow.”
“Then that is what we shall take.”
We descended the wide, gently curving flight of marble steps—like a theater whose rows of seats overlooked waves. On the seabed below I could see the rocks and bright anemones through the clear, clean water. Far out, the ocean was breaking against the base of the Lighthouse, sending up columns of spray, as high and light as an ostrich plume.
I must have a sister-mosaic made for the Venus one, I decided at that moment. It should depict exactly the scene I am looking at now, and the blue of the seas will match. It must show our Alexandria’s harbor on a fine day in high summer.
The boats were kept in readiness at all times, so there was no waiting while the captain made adjustments to the Pharaonic one. Charmian mounted the painted gangplank and hopped onto the deck.
“Oh!” She gave a gasp. “Is this real?”
Joining her, I answered. “If you mean is the wood really wood, and the gold really gold, yes.”
“I meant only that it is fantastic, in the truest sense of the word.”
The Memoirs of Cleopatra Page 59