The men were to jump forward from a standstill, weights in each hand swinging to hurl them forward. They would land in a long sand pit. As expected, Philostratos managed only a feeble jump; it was a good thing he went last, so he would not have the embarrassment of seeing all the others fly over his mark. This was considered one of the most difficult of all events, because only a clean impression on the sand counted. Anyone who fell backward or forward was disqualified. Hence timing and balance were as necessary as speed and strength. Pipes were always played to help establish a rhythm.
The men were getting tired now. It could be seen in the way they grimaced and grunted, standing still when it was not their turn; no more nervous milling and joking.
Antony did not look noticeably weary; I saw him laughing and stretching, curling the weights in his arms, extending them slowly, drawing them back. He must have extraordinary stamina, and it was beginning to show, in contrast to the others.
Young Nicolaus did admirably, his slight young body going a good distance. The sixty-five-year-old supply officer flew past him—he had clearly been practicing. Charmian’s man surpassed him, and Charmian sighed. Then a tall Gaul, one of Antony’s guards, set the farthest mark. Last came Antony.
He approached the starting line slowly, moving the weights back and forth, getting his feel of them for the last time. He bent over as if to loosen all his muscles, then crouched, gathering some enormous ball of energy, and exploded forward, hurtled over the sand, and landed just behind the mark set by the Gaul. Wild cheers rang out, for the very force of his effort had been visible. And he had landed perfectly, not losing his balance. He slowly rose to his feet and stepped away from the sand.
“He’s truly remarkable!” said Charmian, as if she had only now noticed. Perhaps she had.
I shifted on my seat, and the heavy sword that hung by my side clanked. Odd that he had wanted me to wear it—but I felt it was somehow imparting strength to him. The helmet rested by my feet. His achievement at Philippi was enough in itself, as far as history was concerned.
The last of the pentathlon events was the wrestling. Each contestant now had to call his bodyservant to dust his sweaty and oily body with powder, so that the opponents could grip one another. They would practice upright wrestling, in which they would grapple and attempt to throw their opponents to the ground. Three falls were necessary to win, and just touching the sand with the back, shoulders, or hip counted as a fall—telltale grains of sand sticking there would be proof. They were allowed to trip, but not to gouge.
Antony, like several others, was putting on a tight leather cap to prevent his opponent from grabbing his hair. It gave him an entirely different appearance—much more menacing. His thick crown of hair usually disguised his great strength with a semblance of boyishness. But that was gone now.
The contestants drew lots to see who would wrestle whom, and Antony ended up with a great ox of a man facing him. Bending low, they circled each other, arms spread, looking for a way to grasp and unbalance the other. The man’s legs looked like knotted tree trunks, and his shoulders were as wide as an ox yoke. He made Antony seem lithe and slender in comparison. To my surprise, Antony succeeded in tripping him; next he caught him off guard, and the third time, straining against his braced legs, the opponents clasping each other like lovers, Antony bent him over until he lost his footing. Wild shouts exploded from the stands, and from the other contestants. They had seemed so unevenly matched.
None of the other pairs had such a clear-cut victory, and thus it was that Antony was declared the winner not only of the wrestling but of the entire pentathlon, for only he had placed in all five events. The pentathlon was designed to test the all-around athlete, and it required great powers of endurance—Antony’s strong points. I almost wished it had not been he, lest people think it was fixed, but I knew it had been fairly won, and my heart was proud to bursting. I was delighted I had thought of this contest, for what better present could I have given him?
There was still the semicomical race in armor—the hoplitodromos—to be held. Men were to load themselves up with helmets, shields, greaves, and body armor, and run twice the footrace distance. It made a fitting finale, for all that clanking and awkwardness helped to ease the smart of any earlier loss. Even the fleetest warrior looked a bit tortoiselike as he struggled under the weight, and some—unable to see very well to the side because of their helmets—collided with one another. Then they had trouble getting up, they were so ungainly.
I was to award Antony his birthday garland, but there were prizes for many others, including one for the oldest contestant and the youngest, the lightest and the heaviest, and the man who had got the biggest bruise.
“Thank you, friends all!” shouted Antony, raising his hands high. “I shall never forget this birthday! And now, to Canopus and the pleasure gardens! To the canal, where we’ll float on to our rewards!”
Canopus. It had been years since I had been there, and then only with my father, and in the daylight. How did he know about it?
The party streamed out of the Gymnasion, down the white marble steps, and into the waiting chariots and litters. Antony made me ride standing beside him in a chariot; he wrapped me in his cloak with one hand while he drove with the other. He was still heated from the games, and had the smell of victory on him, of exultant exertion. It was a magic smell—of strength, joy, and desire. His cloak flew out behind him as he drove crazily through the streets, his victor’s wreath tilting over one eye, yelling gleefully at people lining the sides.
“You drive like Pluto!” I said, grabbing one of the chariot rails as he bounced along. “Are you heading for Hades?”
“No, for the Elysian Fields! Isn’t that the name of that place outside the city walls, where all the pleasure houses are? Where the canal floats through?”
“It’s called Eleusis,” I said, shouting to be heard over the clattering wheels. “The better class of people avoids it.”
“Good!” he said, urging the horses on.
We floated toward Canopus in a fleet of pleasure boats, their lecherous ferrymen used to conveying merrymakers along the canal that ran parallel to the sea all the way between Alexandria and the town sitting at the mouth of the Canopic branch of the Nile. A great Temple of Serapis and Isis stood there, but it was infamous for the goings-on in the Temple vicinity. Every imaginable human vice—and some unimaginable ones—flourished there. Along the way there were pretty groves of palms, white sand beaches, and in Eleusis, grand houses with ocean views and decadent inhabitants. They waved at us as we passed, the lanterns on our boats signaling them in the twilight.
“Enjoy yourselves!” they called, and one house sent a boy to pipe raucous melodies to us, his companion bellowing out the bawdy lyrics.
“How do you know about Canopus?” I asked.
“I was a young soldier here all those years ago,” he reminded me. “And my own men have been pestering me to take them.”
“Not with me and my women,” I said. “I can’t imagine they would want us along.”
“They can always return by themselves some other time,” he said. “They’re old enough!” He laughed, and pulled me over against him. “This will give all your highborn women a chance to make a safe, escorted visit to the den of iniquity there. Haven’t you all been curious to see it? Be honest, now!”
“Well—yes,” I admitted.
“Your secret—as well as your august person—is safe with us. We will protect your virtue!”
“From the rogues there, while robbing us of it yourselves!”
“Surely your women will be able to fend off a few well-bred Roman soldiers. They can report any misbehavior to me, and I, as commanding officer, will punish anyone so vile as to take liberties. You have my word of honor.” He saluted mockingly.
“I am sure they will be relieved to hear it. They might be happier if you just warned the men in advance.”
A look of disbelief passed over his face. “You sound like a palace tut
or, determined to guard the virtue of a ten-year-old pupil. Are we not all grown men and women? I don’t see Caesarion here.” He made a show of looking around. “Your concern for their sensibility is touching—and out of place, as well as insulting. In short, my sweet Queen, my most mysterious and Egyptian Queen—mind your own business.” He leaned back on the cushions in the boat and wagged a finger in admonition.
I laughed. He had that effect on me.
In the boats, his men and our guests were singing, calling from one vessel to another, drinking Mareotic wine from wineskins some had brought along. We floated onward, toward Canopus.
There was no missing it: lights blazed from the shore, and all the buildings seemed bathed in that lurid red glow. The streets were full of people, unlike most towns after dark. The boats passed a marshy area, low-lying, where the westernmost mouth of the Nile emptied out into the sea. Flocks of startled birds flew upward as the noise and lights of the boats slipped past.
The bow of the boat bumped against the docks, and soon we were all clambering out. The group fanned out, some going to one tavern and some to another, for there was none large enough to hold us all, although they all beckoned.
“We’ll take turns!” said Antony. “Then at the end we’ll compare them all!” He turned to me, thrusting a mantle at me. “Here, wrap up! The night will grow cold, and it would be better if no one knew the Queen was among them.”
It was against my nature to disguise myself. Always I was the Queen, I could be no one else. But I yielded to Antony tonight, not wishing to cross him on his birthday. With him I had learned to set aside my normal behavior and embrace the foreign. I drew on the mantle and pulled its hood over my head.
The first tavern was dark and smoky with the poor oil they used for fuel; the wine was on a par with the light. “Blehh!” said Antony, swirling it around in his mouth. “Tastes like a brew my mother used to sprinkle on clothes to kill moths.”
“Why, did you drink it?”
“No, but I smelled it.” He raised his hand. “Here, here, something better, please!”
The owner waddled over, a smile stretching over his flat face, straining his cheeks. “Sir?” he asked. “You wish our finest?” He looked carefully to see if he thought we could afford it. Antony threw down a gold piece and it spun on the table.
The man snatched it up eagerly. “Yes, yes!” He motioned to his servers and they came with a jug of wine only slightly better.
“This is an improvement,” said Antony, and the man smiled and bowed. “Why, it’s almost up to the standard of army rations.”
He downed the rest of it and then gestured to his company. “Come, come, let’s go elsewhere!” He put his arm around me and all but lifted me out the door.
The night air felt good after the stale smells in the tavern. Even this air was not pure, however, but filled with the perfume of the harlots who were beginning to emerge from their houses and walk the streets. Their thin, transparent cheap silks—with the threads loosened to let in more light—revealed their bodies almost more clearly than if they had been naked. The light of the dockside torches glazed their floating gowns and painted their lips even redder than they already were.
Tinkling music wafted out from hidden houses, dreary when it was trying to sound so wanton. Squatting men beguiled baskets where snakes were to be coaxed out—for a coin or two.
“Tell your fortune!” A clawlike hand grabbed my mantle and I turned to see a wizened face with bright monkey eyes looking at me. But it was not an old face, it was a very young one—perhaps only nine or ten years old. “I can tell the future!” I hurried on, my hand in Antony’s, the sword bumping against my side, heavy and cold. “I can tell you everything!”
So can I, my child, I thought. I can tell your fortune—poverty and despair. My heart ached for these people. I did not find them enticing or tempting, merely sad.
“Give him one of your coins,” I told Antony, making him stop. He gave him one of his gold ones, carelessly; to him it was nothing.
“Your fortune! Your fortune!” The child scampered after us, trying to earn his wage.
“I would rather not know,” I assured him. We hurried on down the waterfront, leaving him behind, staring at the gold coin.
The next place had a large clientele, who had clearly been drinking since sundown. It was as hot as the noon sun at the First Cataract, and I longed to take off the mantle. But it afforded some protection from the press of strange bodies.
A dancing girl, scantily clad, was amusing a group of customers, swaying and shaking and gyrating to the bleat of a reed pipe that sounded like a rutting goat in an agony of lust. Our company, cups in hand, shouldered its way into the circle and watched. I saw the flushed faces of the onlookers; even our group had begun to take on that look of mixed yearning and dissipation.
The wine began to affect me, too. I felt my reserve and standoffish-ness start to dissolve. Gradually the tavern did not seem tatty and rude, but excitingly wicked. I even felt my arms start to trace out the dancer’s movements under my cloak. Suddenly I wanted to move, spin, dance—make love.
“More, more!” The patrons were clapping and demanding another dance. The girl, sweat running down her body, obliged, and the mixed smell of perspiration and perfume was as intoxicating as the fumes of the cheap wine.
“Let’s get some food!” cried Antony suddenly, to his companions. En masse they headed for the door, in spite of the owner’s attempts to convince them that he served food as well.
“No, we have to try them all!” said Antony. “All the places!”
We selected an eating place at random—since no one knew any particular establishment. Antony had followed his nose, smelling something roasting. It turned out to be the remnants of an ox, and our party ordered it all cut off the spit and served. It was surprisingly good.
“I think—I think we should form a society!” said Antony suddenly, his mouth half full of crisp pieces of ox, chewing furiously. “Yes, and we’d have meals, roasted ox every day if we pleased—we’d have excursions, we’d take our pleasures and try to outdo ourselves each day. Who wants to join?”
“All of us!” cried the birthday guests.
“And what would you call this—this club?” I asked.
“Why, the Amimetobioi—the Society of the Incomparable Livers!” he said quickly.
He must have already planned such a club, I thought, for the name was too ready on his tongue.
“I see,” I said.
“I want to become a legend of extravagant indulgence!” he said, kissing my cheek. “Just like you with the pearl.”
“I thought you wanted to complete Caesar’s task and conquer Parthia,” I said. “I do not think that goes with extravagant indulgence.”
“Oh, Alexander had his bouts of wild drinking, and he conquered the entire world! Who says they are incompatible?”
“Perhaps not for Alexander, but—he did not live very long.”
“But gloriously, gloriously!” He raised his cup and drank it all in one swallow.
“Stop shouting,” I said. His voice hurt my ear.
He pressed another cup into my hand and I sipped it slowly. I had no wish to get any drunker than I already was.
Stuffed with food and wine, we reeled out into the street again. We passed a knot of people, also from our party, and the groups mingled and then broke away, searching in different directions for more amusements. I saw Charmian and the tall Roman in the other group, but they did not notice me. Nicolaus was also there, and even the old supply officer, celebrating his victory. They drifted away, and we wound our way back into the streets off the waterfront. It was quieter there, but somehow more vicious: it was as if the vice did not even try to drape itself in false gaiety, but just went about its grim business with no imagination at all. Women hung out of the windows, their thin arms beckoning, their dark eyes following us as we trailed down the streets.
Through one of the alleys I saw something big, on high groun
d. It must be the Temple of Serapis. I tugged on Antony’s arm. “Let’s go there,” I said. I was anxious to leave this quarter.
“Lead on,” he said obediently.
We wound our way toward it, and as we approached, the press of people suddenly reappeared. Hundreds of torches were burning, giving off clouds of smoke and the smell of resin, as well as flickering light. The entire area around the rising ground of the temple was filled with booths—booths selling incense, offerings, lamps, garlands. Also, the temple prostitutes plied their trade, lounging in doorways, spilling out onto doorsills. There were also houses with rooms to rent by the hour for anyone who wished to indulge, no questions asked, before or after worshiping.
This had once been a sacred shrine. My ancestor Ptolemy III had built it and dedicated it to the gods, and it had been a place of healing where invalids came to spend the night and be cured. From this it had fallen to a place where evil consorted with superstition and lust. Baths nearby drew off the sated worshipers, where they could frolic naked in heated water, splashing and squealing.
I wished I had not come. Before I could turn and leave, however, an old woman approached us. “Love potions!” she whispered, hawking her wares. “Love potions!” She thrust a vial of green liquid into Antony’s hand.
He held it up and looked at it.
“It’s powerful, sir,” she said, holding out her hand for money. He gave it, and impulsively took a swallow of the brew.
“Don’t!” I said. “It may be poisonous—or dangerous.”
“No, it’s nothing of the sort,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Take some.” He gave it to me. “You have to join me in drinking it.”
Every fiber in me warned against it, but something compelled me to do it. A sip revealed it as sticky-sweet, with an aftertaste of raisins.
“Come, let’s visit the shrine.” We made our way over the uneven ground and then climbed the steps into the temple. In the forest of columns, the light faded and I could barely see the place where my ancestor Berenice had made her famous offering of hair—an offering accepted by the gods and taken up to heaven, where it was turned into a constellation.
The Memoirs of Cleopatra Page 73