The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  He looked surprised. “It should not be such a worry to you,” he said. “Egypt is a large morsel, hard to digest.”

  “I think Rome has a big enough stomach.”

  I could see him thinking, debating whether to launch into the question of my liaison with Caesar. He decided not to. “Comana is safe enough for the moment,” he said.

  Now I debated whether to say Thanks to your mother’s charms, but likewise thought better of it. Instead I said, “What do you think of your new overlord?”

  A servant appeared, bringing the first course—lettuce, rolled cucumbers stuffed with sea bass, spiced quail eggs. Archelaus took a long time making his selection.

  He speared a quail egg before responding. “We are thankful it was Marc Antony rather than Octavian. After the battle of Philippi, the vanquished lined up to surrender to Antony first. No one wanted to fall into Octavian’s hands; they knew he would be unforgiving. Some of the prisoners, due for execution, begged Octavian for assurances of honorable burial. He just sneered, ‘You will have to take that up with the carrion crows.’ ” His appetite dampened, he chewed the egg slowly.

  Yes, I could picture that. And I could imagine him smiling his perfect smile as he said it.

  “It could have gone to no one but Antony,” I said. “Along with the territory comes the task of invading Parthia, and only Antony could carry it out. Besides, he has served in the east before, and knows its ways.” I took a sip of the white wine, diluted with mountain water. It still had a slightly astringent flavor. “Has he been—terribly busy?”

  “Day and night,” said Archelaus. “Especially night.”

  Seeing the look on my face, he reached for more words.

  “But he has been diligent in attending to business,” he assured me. “Interviewing people day after day in headquarters, making decisions that seem fair and well considered. Ephesus is a fine city, situated on the sea as it is, with its marble buildings and streets—but of course you are used to that in Alexandria. But one thing it has that Alexandria doesn’t—a countryside well suited for riding. Lord Antony took me out several times for riding and hunting. I got to know him as a private man.”

  The second course arrived, roasted kid, smoked peacock, and sliced ox meat. There were three sauces to accompany them: pepper and honey, cream of cucumber, and chopped mint in vinegar. He looked at them and finally took two.

  “And what is he like—as a private man?” From Dellius’s summons, I suspected that the sudden elevation to power had changed him, corrupting his sweet nature.

  I was surprised when he answered, “A prince among men.” He paused. “A man among men, a soldier with the common soldier.”

  “Oh, you mean he changes his manner to suit the occasion! He colors to suit the coloration around him.” A human chameleon, that most slippery of creatures.

  “No, I mean the opposite,” he said. “I mean that he is always himself, no matter the company. He is at base a plain man, an honest man—and what is more noble and princely than that?”

  “Unfortunately it is not often found among nobles and princes,” I said.

  “I believe he deceives others as little as possible, and himself not at all. If people are deceived in him, it is because they have deceived themselves, seeing what is not there.”

  “Has he seen my sister?” I asked. What had he done about Arsinoe?

  “No,” he said. “Arsinoe is still in sanctuary at the Temple of Artemis. Antony does not frequent the temple. Enough of his men have been availing themselves of the unofficial prostitutes there, the ladies who…er…purport to serve the goddess with their earthly skills.”

  Now we both broke out laughing again. I was glad Antony did not go there; it would be demeaning. But what business was it of mine?

  Archelaus was telling a story about his court. I listened, but paid more attention to my own reactions to him. I was watching them as closely as a child staring at a butterfly’s cocoon, waiting for it to open.

  I had enjoyed the afternoon, and I found Archelaus appealing. But only as I found many other things, and people, appealing: the priest of Serapis who came to me whenever I wished to celebrate an anniversary or make a special offering; the woman who tended the lotuses in the palace pool, and fashioned delicate necklaces from them. The head charioteer, well-favored and strapping. They were all attractive human beings, who warmed my heart with their wit, skill, or kindness. They made daily life a delight.

  But they did nothing to awaken that part of me that had gone to sleep, or—worse—been murdered along with Caesar. And neither did Archelaus. I could not imagine him with no clothes on, and most telling, I had no wish to. Nor could I imagine myself in such a state with him.

  That night, as I lay in bed and felt the hot air of summer fill the room, I wondered what induced such feelings in me, and why thinking about them was not the same as the immediacy of actually thinking them.

  Wishing for things could sometimes call them forth. Wishing to study could incite a desire to do so, stimulate an interest. Reading about a region could pique interest in it, make you want to travel there and experience it. But passion could not be piped forth, could not be lured from its den by any known device or trick. It seemed to have a stubborn, independent life of its own, slumbering when it would be convenient for it to dance, springing forth when there was no reason for it, nowhere for it to spend itself.

  I wished I could will myself to feel desire for Archelaus, but I could not, it seemed, command my own will. Nothing stirred within me, no hint of heat rose from my inmost being. I was as still as the sacred lake of Isis, where I had swum so long ago, parting the waters in silence at night.

  42

  The winds blew across the Mediterranean, bringing ships and news. I was apprised of everything that was happening on all fronts—from Octavian’s near-fatal illness on his return voyage to Antony’s rollicking progress across Asia. Once in Italy, still weak, Octavian encountered difficulty after difficulty, from veterans demanding to be paid, for whom he had no money, to the predations of Sextus on the Roman food routes. The fortunes of the two men were diverging, Antony climbing and Octavian declining.

  For a while Antony continued to send messengers to “invite” me to attend him. Finally they ceased, and I had no more word from him. Good. I had made up my mind to go, when it suited me, and in a manner that suited me, when he had stopped expecting me.

  It was necessary that I have some understanding with Rome. In spite of my harsh words and disparaging thoughts about it, the truth—which I finally had to admit to myself—was that when I bore a son who was half Roman, and the child of Julius Caesar, I had tied myself to Rome forever. What happened in Rome mattered to my son, as well as to Egypt.

  Fate had blessed me in sending Antony east, instead of Octavian. I could deal with Antony, and I meant to bend him to the best bargain I could in regard to both Caesarion and Egypt. He had spoken for Caesarion’s paternity in the Senate, and I needed him to continue to back those claims. And he must be made to know that Egypt would be a valuable ally but a troubling enemy. We were too large to be treated as a vassal state; we were no Comana. He would have to approach with respect and ask, not command, if he wanted to free his hands to confront Parthia. I wondered exactly how Dellius had described my refusal to answer. In any case, Antony had given up. I had won that round—the first one. Now for the next.

  It took two months to ready the ship for its peculiar mission. I selected a “six” and had it completely refurbished inside and out, so that there was none other like it in existence. The stern was gilded in gold leaf. Belowdecks there was an enormous banquet room to accommodate twelve dining couches, as well as musicians and acrobats. I built cupboards to store enough gold plate to furnish the table three times over, and the hold of the ship was turned into stables to carry thirty horses—and as shipwrights know, one horse takes as much room as four men. In addition, I had my artisans design lamps that could hold many lights, and could be suspended in the sh
ip’s rigging and altered to shape circles, squares, or triangles. When they were raised or lowered, it looked like the night sky, but brighter and more magical.

  As for my own quarters, they were to be in the aft part of the ship, and contained a large bed, tables and chairs, and many mirrors, as well as lamps affixed to the walls.

  Yes, I had my plan, and the money invested in the ship would be well worth it.

  But as for myself, I was uncertain about the best way to arrive at Tarsus. Should I be dressed as a stern warrior, helmet—ceremonial, of course—and shield girding me? Should I be dressed as Caesar’s widow, in drab and severe costume? Should I be a remote queen? This was a state visit—what image did I wish to convey? Should I be warlike Athena, or grieving Demeter, or regal Hera, or…

  My eye happened to fall on the mosaic set in the banqueting hall floor just as these thoughts were turning idly through my mind, and I saw Venus rising in her splendor from the sea. Venus…Aphrodite…We would be passing her island, the island of Cyprus, on our way to Tarsus…where she might arise and come on board….

  Antony. Antony was Dionysus…. So who should pay a state visit to Dionysus but Aphrodite?

  Yes, and Caesar had called me Venus, had put the statue of me as Venus in his family temple…Antony, too, as a Julian, was descended of Venus…. It was altogether fitting that it should be Venus, Aphrodite, who came to Tarsus and met Dionysus. We would thus be changed from ourselves, and it would lend a striking aspect to the meeting, one that would command attention, transport it into another realm altogether….

  “Charmian!” I called, leaving my chair. “Charmian, call the costume master!”

  The sails filled, hesitant at first, then proudly and boldly. The waters clove and we shot ahead, six hundred miles toward the coast of Cilicia, toward Tarsus.

  On board the ship were all the provisions to hold court and entertain the Romans and the citizens of Tarsus. I need be beholden to no one there, need not be anyone’s guest. It was I who would do the inviting, it was I who would hold court.

  The other rulers—who were they? Not one of them could meet Antony as an equal, nor could they present themselves in any guise other than their own selves. The Ptolemaic empire might have dwindled and almost sputtered out, but I would make my ancestors proud of me now. I would go as a queen and as Aphrodite herself, and let them all gasp and gape.

  My costume was, I knew, unprecedented. It was neither ceremonial nor conventional nor proper. I was going as a woman, but one who must not be touched.

  We had fair weather; this time the winds seemed to conspire with me to transport me exactly where I wished to go. We passed Cyprus on the lee side, skirting the beautiful island, called “of eternal spring,” and as we passed I threw offerings to the goddess for the waves to toss at her feet.

  Aphrodite, I prayed, be with your daughter now! And the flowers and candles rode the water and floated away to seek her.

  It had been more than half a year since Antony first summoned me. I had made him wait long enough, and he would have resigned himself to my not coming. But he would not be angry; he was a forgiving man, that I remembered. Forgiving and easy to please.

  But I must do more than please him. Those who are easy to please are the hardest to win. Because everything pleases them, more or less—snatches of a song they overhear someone singing over the next wall, bread that is somewhat flat but still tasty, indifferent wine on a very hot day—nothing pleases them to the exclusion of everything else. And it is only in pleasing someone to that extent that one triumphs.

  I walked the decks, enveloped in a strange, dreamy world.

  I remembered Antony as I had known him in Rome, and then the picture of him at the Lupercalia flashed into my mind. I had kept it vividly intact, stored in a secret recess of my memory, for—truth be told—it had excited me. It was not only his bodily perfection—although let us not slight that!—but his sheer exuberance, his energy and power, that day, that made him close to a god in form and movement.

  Yes, I remembered Antony…and reminded myself that that was almost four years ago. Now he was forty-one, not thirty-seven: much could happen in four years, much could fall away. But that joy in living, that boyish vitality…could he have lost that, entirely? And he had loved playacting—could that have been lost as well?

  No, I doubted that. That was his very essence; it would endure.

  So I was going to Antony. By my very manner of arrival, I would salute and honor those aspects of him; I would echo and magnify them. Together we would make a resounding noise.

  The coast of Cilicia emerged on the horizon. This was the flat, fertile part of Cilicia, where the mountains retreated and left a seaside plain. Once the Ptolemies had owned it, along with Cyprus. Its sister region, “rough” Cilicia, to the west, was a wild area of harbors and tall timbers, where the pirates had had their strongholds, now held by Rome.

  The city of Tarsus was located twelve miles inland from the coast, on the Cyndus River. It could be very cold; Alexander had swum in it and taken a bad chill, for the melting snows fed it in spring.

  “Anchor!” I commanded the captain as we approached the coast. We would wait here until the next day, when we would proceed upriver. There was much to be done in preparation. And I knew the ship would be sighted, and Antony alerted in Tarsus. I had given no warning of my coming, no message.

  That night we rode gently at anchor, and I dreamed strange dreams. At last I had begun to explore the lost world of my ancestors, and see for myself what we had once been. And waiting for me was a Roman, in the trappings of the east. Had he, then, left his toga behind? I would see an Antony who was unknown and unfamiliar. And he would see me as Caesar had, also in my eastern aspect. We would be new to one another.

  In the dawn we fitted the special sails—purple, and steeped in the essence of cyprus-tree oil. Winds blowing through them would carry the smell of the forest. But in this lily-choked waterway, sheltered, there would not be much wind. Rowers would be needed, and now the special silver-tipped oars were brought from the hold and replaced the regular ones of pine. The musicians, who would pipe the time of the strokes of the oars, took their places on deck and belowdecks with flutes, fifes, and harps. For this short journey, the wind-burnt sailors were replaced by women dressed as sea nymphs, who stood by tending the lines and the rudder. Others held smoking censers of perfume from which rolled heady clouds of frankincense and myrrh, seeking the shore.

  Charmian costumed me, draping me in the folds of the gown of Venus. The thin tissue of the gown was gold, almost transparent, and it fell in clouds of shimmering glory from my shoulders. Up on the deck, the attendants were readying a canopy of cloth of gold, to look like a divine pavilion, and draping the couch with leopardskins. Before we cast off, I took my place there, reclining, while handsome young boys, costumed as Cupid, stood on either side of me, gently raising and lowering feathered fans. It was as near as I could come to translating a painting I had seen of Venus into real life.

  Slowly, ponderously, the ship plied its way through the waterlilies and made its way upstream, I holding my pose all the while. I could see, on either side of the river, crowds gathering, people lining the banks, gaping. Charmian and Iras, dressed as mermaids, stood at the helm, tossing flowers to the onlookers.

  The river widened out to a lake; I told the Cupids to summon the captain, and when he came to my pavilion, I said he must anchor in the middle of the lake, and not dock at the quays.

  “We will not go ashore,” I said. “We will not set one foot in Tarsus until first we have been honored here on board.”

  From where I lay, I saw a mass of people congregating on the docks. Someone launched a small boat, and it rowed frantically out to us. It was filled with Roman officers. One of them stood up and started gesturing.

  “See what they want,” I said to my steward. He went to the railing and bent over to talk to them.

  The little boat was almost swamped by the men straining to see what was o
n deck. One after another they stood up and craned their necks, rocking the boat dangerously.

  The steward returned and said, “Lord Antony’s staff officer asks what, and who, has approached.”

  I thought for a moment. “You may tell him that Aphrodite has come to revel with Dionysus for the good of Asia.” His face registered surprise. “And try not to laugh when you say it. Say it in all solemn seriousness.”

  He obediently did so, and I saw the incredulous Romans searching for words to reply. Finally my steward returned.

  “He says that his most noble lord Antony invites you to dine with him tonight, at a welcoming banquet.”

  “Tell him that I do not wish to come ashore at Tarsus, and that the most noble Antony and his men, and the leading citizens of the city, should be my guests tonight instead, aboard the ship.”

  More exchanges ensued. The steward came back to say that Antony was holding court today at the tribunal in the city square, and that he expected me to come and pay respects.

  I laughed. “He must be sitting on the platform alone,” I said. “The entire city is down at the docks.” I paused. “Repeat my message: He must come here first.”

  The message was conveyed, and the boat rowed away, heading for the quay.

  “Now, my dear friend,” I said, “ready the banquet!”

  While the food was cooking, and the banquet chamber was being prepared, the ship slowly made its way across the lake. By the time we reached the dock, twilight had fallen and a deep blue-purple haze enveloped us, deepened by the mist of the smoking incense. Torches were lit, and the unreality of the day gave way to the further unreality of the night.

  It was full dark before a commotion on the waterfront told me the guests were on their way. A procession wound toward us, with someone striding in front, accompanied by torch-bearers and singers. A long trail of companions streamed out behind him, and the crowds on either side were milling in excitement. I did not rise, so as not to spoil my careful arrangement under the canopy, but I was eager to know who was coming.