The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  “He isn’t my enemy,” said Antony firmly. “I wish you would stop saying that.”

  More news poured in. A slave insurrection had started in Campania, but Octavian had stamped it out, and scores of people of all ranks fled to the protection of the rebel pirate-king Sextus Pompey, who all but ruled Sardinia and Sicily. Even Antony’s own mother had joined them.

  “My mother, forced to flee for her safety!” he lamented. “A disgrace upon me!”

  “Oh, stop it!” I said. “Punish Octavian, and set things right!”

  “But it isn’t Octavian who’s at fault—it’s Fulvia. She has even raised legions against him, and issued her own coins!”

  Yes, I could imagine the fiery Fulvia doing that. “She is only doing it on your behalf.”

  “That’s what you think!” He turned on me. “The real reason she has done this is to lure me from Egypt. She’s angry about you.”

  “So she will raise an army and jeopardize your interests to pry you away from me? Strange sort of loyalty.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “I think I do.” I remembered the stories of her bloodthirstiness, her vengeance.

  “Better that you never learn more, or come closer to her.”

  “Divorce her,” I said suddenly.

  He stared at me, shocked. “What?” he finally said.

  “She is harming you,” I said. I was thinking out loud now. “She is ambitious for you, and has her eyes set on the highest prize. She understands—as you do not seem to—the danger in Octavian. But she is a liability. She cannot really help you to achieve what should be yours. I can.”

  He tried to joke. “Is this a proposal?”

  “Join your forces with mine,” I said. “Let me show you what I can offer you. Not a legion here or there, hastily raised, but enough to buy fifty legions, a whole fleet of ships, an army as big as you wish.” I grasped his arm, his thick-muscled arm. “Soar as high as you are meant to.”

  “I repeat my question: Is this a proposal?” He smiled, treating it as mere love-play.

  “Yes,” I said. “Marry me, join our forces, and I shall never betray or desert you. All you want, I can deliver into your hands.”

  “All I want?” he said. “I have no desire for more than I already have.”

  “Which you seem in peril of losing,” I said. “To retain what you have, you will have to reach for more.”

  “I am no Caesar,” he finally said. “What made his heart leap up does not tempt me. If you think to have found a second Caesar, I must disappoint you.”

  “It isn’t a second Caesar I want, but an Antony who attains the stature that he deserves. Do not settle for less than your destiny.”

  “Ah, you make it sound so grand. Destiny. Stature. Very noble. Makes the blood sing. But I must look at what it really means.”

  “Is an alliance with me so repugnant?”

  He laughed. “How can you say that?”

  “Because you seem to shrink from it. But I know that you are actually drawn to it.” I paused. “Be careful, or I may take up with Octavian! He would not hesitate—he’s greedy for glory, no matter what path he must tread to get it.”

  “I hope you are joking.” Antony looked alarmed.

  “I could never make a marriage with Octavian,” I assured him. “Unless I was guaranteed he would treat me as he did Claudia.”

  “No chance of that. I know he has a lust for you.”

  That was unexpected. “How do you know that?”

  “I could feel it,” said Antony. “And I would rather slay you than let him satisfy his curiosity.”

  His outburst took me by surprise—both his assertion about Octavian and his possessiveness.

  “Then take me for yourself. Legally,” I added.

  “But such a marriage would not be recognized in Rome,” he said.

  Yes, I had heard that before. But if he only had one wife, it would have to be honored.

  “So I have offered, and you have refused.” I stood up and made ready to leave the room. “I must say, the rejection stings.” I tried to make it sound light.

  “I am not rejecting you, but politically—”

  “I know. Our magic kingdom ends where politics begins.”

  I paced my room that night, until Charmian inquired anxiously if I wished a sleep potion. But I wanted the opposite: something to sharpen my wits, to unlock ideas. I needed to think, think more clearly than I ever had before.

  Antony was being offered an opportunity that comes only once in the lifetime of a man, and not to all men, but only to a very few. For all the talk about the Fortune of Caesar, had he not been bold enough to snatch at it as it passed, he would have remained sitting by the side of the road. But he did grab it, wrestled with it, and a new world order was born. We could not turn back.

  Rome had taken over the west, and part of the east. It was easier to take over such primitive and virgin lands as Gaul than to take realms that were old past imagining: Babylon, and Syria, and Arabia. And Egypt, oldest and strongest of all. What was Rome to do with them? They could never be Roman, speak Latin, think like Romans. Yet that is what Rome would try to make them do, I knew it. In would come the administrators, the census takers, the tax farmers, the road and aqueduct builders, running roughshod over all the ways that had stood since the beginning of time, obliterating all the wisdom they sorely needed for the new age.

  Alexander had known better; he had tried to forge a new race from the old, losing nothing, keeping all intact. Caesar had known better, and his wider views had been part of what killed him. Octavian was parochial, local, entirely focused on the country of Rome and Italy. Should his vision prevail, the east would wither and die, ground under the hobnail boots of the Roman soldiers occupying it.

  And Antony? In many ways he had Caesar’s wider outlook. He was not prejudiced against something merely because it was not Roman. His Dionysus guise was treated with contempt in Rome, but appreciated by his eastern subjects. He was sensitive to their outlook and beliefs; he was the one Roman willing to shed his toga. Even Caesar had not gone that far.

  Outside, I could see the beacon of the Lighthouse winking. There was so much here, so much glorious history—the collective intellect and spirit of the Greek world. Surely its star could not be setting already. Should Octavian prevail, that was what would happen.

  No empire can be ruled by two men. One must always, ultimately, make a bid for supreme power. That Octavian would do so, I had no doubt. But he would need time, time to grow in strength. If the contest were held today, he would lose.

  Antony was better suited to follow Caesar, with me as his partner. What I said about two people did not apply to husband and wife. They could rule jointly: I would speak for the eastern peoples, and Antony for the western. And our children would inherit all, heralding a new race of international citizens.

  Our children…for there was to be a child, I had just realized. A child that should wear the mantle of both worlds, but be bound by neither.

  Antony stood highest in all the civilized world now—the avenger of Caesar, the victor of Philippi, the senior partner of Octavian. It was all his for the taking. It was necessary, for the well-being of all the realms under his protection, that he take over. I would be his faithful partner, the balance to the Roman weight on the other side of the scales. Why could I not make him understand that?

  I sank down on my bed, rocking back and forth. He was too modest a man, too fixed on his obligations to Octavian, to the Triumvirate, which was due to expire in only three years. Three years in which Octavian would consolidate his gains, grow stronger. Then what? Strength is always obtained at someone else’s expense. Octavian could not grow greater unless Antony grew less.

  Oh, Antony, I thought, awake! Take what fortune is offering you. She never offers twice.

  47

  “Come with me,” I told Antony two mornings later. He had come at my summons, and now stood looking at me expectantly. I hoped to convince him
of what he must do by showing him the secret workings of my country.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, as we rode in a chariot to the docks and dismounted before the large warehouse owned by Epaphroditus and his company. They were expecting us.

  “I want you to suspend all judgment until this morning is over,” I told him. “Then, tonight, you must think about it—think of all it entails. Of all it can mean.”

  We entered the cavernous warehouse, warm after the blustery winds sweeping over the harbor. Enough windows were set in the walls to allow us to see quite well. Epaphroditus came to us immediately, his graceful bearing sweeping all before him. I still thought he was the handsomest man I had ever beheld—in the flesh. Statues did not count, being only a sculptor’s wish.

  Antony was rocking back and forth impatiently. He looked around the warehouse, seeing the rows of amphorae and sacks of wool, and rolled his eyes.

  “This is my trusted finance minister, my dioiketes, Epaphroditus,” I said. “He has a Hebrew name as well, but I am not allowed to use it.” I thought to lighten the meeting by the remark.

  Epaphroditus bowed and said, “It is indeed an honor to meet one of the three pillars of the world.” He bowed again.

  “A triple arch,” I said. “But the other two are outflankings. This arch could stand alone; the other two could not.”

  Epaphroditus raised his eyebrows. “To be the support of others can be draining. Only the strong can sustain it. Welcome, Lord Antony. I have long wished to speak personally with you. I trust you are enjoying our city?”

  “Yes, indeed…” And so the pleasantries ran on for a few moments.

  Finally I knew it could be politely ended. “I wish Lord Antony to be apprised of the financial structure of Egypt,” I told Epaphroditus. “And I wish him to be shown the actual holdings—the royal granaries for wheat and produce, the oil factories, the merchant fleet, the warehouses of papyrus, wool, salt, natron, the spices. And the books to go with them.”

  Epaphroditus looked perplexed. “Your Majesty, that would take many days. Has the most noble lord Antony the time?”

  “I have the time, if it is something I should see,” Antony said quickly.

  “Just a short tour of the receiving stations in Alexandria, then,” I assured Epaphroditus.

  “Very well.” He cleared his throat. “I came into this office only a few years ago, but I find it is even more extensive than I had imagined. In one way it is simple: the Queen owns everything. She owns the entire country—all the land, all the produce of the land, all that labor produces. There is no private property—it is all the Queen’s.” He waited for a response from Antony. When none was forthcoming, he went on, “It was the way of the Pharaohs, and when the Ptolemies came, the system continued. Of course the Queen does not literally own everything, but everything comes under her jurisdiction. A river of grain, almost as mighty as the Nile itself, flows from the entire country into the royal granary of Alexandria. There are royal receiving granaries for other produce, too—the beans, gourds, onions, olives, dates, figs, almonds. The yearly tax on wheat, paid in kind, is twenty million bushels a year.”

  Antony stared at him. “What?” he said.

  “Twenty million bushels a year is received here, laid at the feet—figuratively, of course—of Queen Cleopatra.”

  “Ye gods!” said Antony. It sunk in what this meant—Rome was always having to import wheat, and lately Sextus had disrupted the supply route, so that food riots had broken out in Rome. “Twenty million bushels a year…” He shook his head.

  “We will visit the granary,” I assured him. I wanted him to see that mountain of food.

  “But there is also the royal monopoly on wool,” said Epaphroditus. “We have been quite successful in breeding sheep from Arabia and Miletus, and produce so much wool that we export it. Of course the wool mills come under our control.”

  “Oh, did I tell you I have my own wool mill?” I said innocently to Antony. “It sports my royal seal, and the rugs are in great demand. People somehow connect me with rugs—I suppose because of Caesar.” I laughed. “So everyone wants to own one.”

  “She has made a tidy bundle from it,” said Epaphroditus. “But the profits go to help the needy.”

  “Yes, and I have an idea of diverting some to Canopus this year,” I told him. Something had to be done about their state of despair.

  “And the oil,” I prompted Epaphroditus.

  “Oh yes, the oil. It is the great royal monopoly, and each year we tell the farmers exactly how much land should be planted for the required yield. Then the oil is pressed in state factories by the peasants, and sent here. Let me show you.” He gestured to us to follow him to the adjoining warehouse. We passed row after row of wine amphorae until we entered the oil warehouse, where the shapes quickly changed—these amphorae were squat and round. They stretched on and on, lined up like an army, a silent army.

  “Here are the containers of sesame oil, the highest quality,” Epaphroditus was saying. There must have been a thousand of them. “And here the croton oil”—another thousand. “And the linseed oil”—another mass of them. “And safflower, and colocynth.”

  “All yours?” said Antony faintly.

  “All mine,” I said. “Or rather, the profits of them are. I certainly cannot use it all myself—even to feed the Incomparables.”

  “These are distributed through merchants at a fixed price. We regulate foreign oils by levying a fifty-percent import tax,” said Epaphroditus.

  “And if that is not enough, we also impose a two-percent harbor tax, and if the goods go up the Nile, another twelve percent. That assures us that no one will bring in any foreign oil—except a very rich man, for his own use, and in limited amounts,” I told him.

  “You seem to have thought of everything,” said Antony.

  “We have had generations to do so,” I said. “Epaphroditus, do you think we should also include the papyrus warehouse on the tour? It is a royal monopoly as well.”

  “Ah, what is more Egyptian than papyrus? Of course.” Epaphroditus smiled.

  “Perhaps, before we depart, we should allow him to see a little of our tax books,” I said. “As for the cattle, the royal prerogative gives us many large herds, and we have leather factories. We also have a quarter share in all fisheries and honey.”

  Antony was shaking his head. “Is anything exempt?” he asked.

  “No, not really. We have our own merchant fleet on the Nile. We also have control of the mines, the quarries, the saltworks, and the natron pits,” I assured him. “No one can fish or keep bees or brew beer without a license from us. And we receive one-sixth of the produce of vineyards, taken in kind. To keep our wines competitive, we charge a one-third import duty on fine Greek wines.”

  “But I notice you drink them,” said Antony. “There always seems to be Greek wine flowing.”

  “Well, of course,” I said. “We use the profits from everything else to indulge our taste for Greek wine. We don’t like to be deprived.”

  “Of course not.” He walked up and down the corridors of amphorae, looking at them attentively.

  “Now let’s take a look at the wine,” said Epaphroditus, returning to the first warehouse. He gestured to one wall. “These are our best, wine from the Delta. Of course, it can’t compare with that of Lesbos or Chios, but”—he walked on, toward another grouping—“this is Mareotic, it’s quite good, white and sweet. They use a special seal on the amphorae.” We kept walking past the jars, Antony seeming dazed. “Here’s Taeniotic—usually pale yellow, with an oily quality. It has to be mixed with pure water.”

  “What is most impressive of all this you can’t see. It is our organization,” I told Antony. “After all, any ruler can decree that he is owed taxes—but collecting them is another matter. As well you know.”

  “Ah yes,” he sighed. “I have had my troubles there.” In fact, his primary mission in coming east was to collect taxes to pay for the last-fought war. “If y
ou have the secret—”

  “The secret lies in taking a census on a regular basis,” I said. “We try to conduct one every year, or, at the worst, every other year.”

  “Ye gods!” Antony repeated. “How can you manage that?”

  “For one thing, we are not always at war. Peace is needed for such close administration.”

  “A good point,” Antony said. “And so it is a good thing that the civil wars of Rome are over.”

  That was not the point I wished to make. “If indeed they are,” I said. Time enough for that discussion later, and in private. “Come, I think it is time we toured the granaries.”

  Outside, our chariot was waiting, and Epaphroditus ordered his brought around. He led the way, wheeling around and skirting the wharves, making for the part of the city bordering the canal-fed inner harbor. Most of the produce of the land arrived through Lake Mareotis and the Nile canal, and the ships unloaded there, transferring their cargo onto the canal that ran through the city. The granaries lay there, our own version of a line of pyramids.

  He pulled up his horses in front of the largest one, built of limestone and fastened with heavy iron doors. It was locked and bolted from the inside, and two guards stood by, heavily armed. They gave the signal for the master of the granary to open it for us. After the sound of the bolt sliding out, the doors swung open slowly.

  A golden haze lay in the air inside, and the sunlight—coming from high windows—broke into shafts and turned into a cloud. It hit the dust from the wheat, which, even after winnowing, hung in the air and gave a dry, sweet smell to the place.

  There was a pathway down the center of the building, but on both sides were thick plank half-walls holding back the grain—what looked like an ocean of wheat stretching back and back to the periphery. I pictured the wood straining and breaking, and a wave of grain gushing out and drowning us.

  Antony kept turning his head, looking on both sides, but he said little.

  “There are similar granaries for barley and millet,” I said. “And figs, dates, and almonds have their own warehouses. Would you like to visit them?”