The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  “No,” said Antony. “I am sure they are all the same, only the color and smell inside is different.”

  “Oh, but you must see my favorite—the spice warehouse!” I insisted. “When I was little, I used to make my father take me there. The smells were like airborne jewels.” I saw he was getting restless, so I begged, “Please. If ever you want to know what delights me—”

  “I would make it my task to learn everything that delights you,” he said.

  Epaphroditus looked down at his shoes, embarrassed. “Well, then…” He led the way out of the granary, and soon we were entering the square stone building that served as the repository for the precious imported spices. There was a ten-man guard set over the doors and around the ventilation vents, for spices were tempting to thieves, being so light and so expensive. Three sets of locks had to be undone before we could enter.

  Inside, the mingled smells were overpowering. High above, I could see the latticed air vents, but they let out only the excess heat. It was dim, for the light had to come a long way to reach the floor. It took a few moments for our eyes to adjust, and all the while we were assaulted with the smells. It was as if our noses had ambushed our eyes and left us dependent on smell alone to orient ourselves. I breathed deeply, plunging into the aromatic cloud.

  “These are the spices that come from the east from the caravan routes,” said Epaphroditus. “We just double the prices we have paid before distributing them to the rest of the world. Of course, not everything comes to Alexandria—some of the caravans go on to the Black Sea and others to Damascus—but we have most of the market. That is because we are a seaport and can export easily, which Damascus can’t.”

  “You seem to have world trade by the throat,” said Antony. “Poor Rome does not even have a harbor; we have to use Puteoli, but that’s almost a hundred miles away.”

  “There are many advantages to being based in Alexandria,” I said pointedly. I hoped he was paying attention. “Now let’s do what I always loved doing—walking past the stores and guessing what they are by smell. Lead us, Epaphroditus.” As part of the game, I covered my eyes with one hand and gave the other to Epaphroditus, and led Antony.

  “Now this is easy,” I said, at the first stop. “It’s cardamom. Am I right?”

  “Indeed you are,” said Epaphroditus. “Here are the wooden boxes holding them, but nothing can imprison the pungent smell.” Reaching almost to the ceiling were stacks of boxes, worth huge amounts of money.

  We shuffled down the aisles of the rest of the warehouse, passing cinnamon—which was easy to identify—and cassia and pepper, which were not. There were also sacks of saffron stacked in one corner.

  “Whole sacks!” said Antony. “I had never imagined such quantity.”

  “Yes, it takes almost two hundred flowers to produce a pinch of it,” I said.

  “No wonder it’s guarded so heavily,” said Antony.

  There were bags, sacks, and jars of lesser spices—cumin, turmeric, aniseed, coriander—in the far corner of the building. By that time our noses had become so numbed we could smell nothing.

  “All the baths of Rome would not be able to wash these flavors and smells off my skin,” said Antony. “I feel they have penetrated down to my bones.” Laughing, he flapped his tunic about, like a crane spreading its wings.

  When we stepped outside, the air seemed weirdly thin, characterless. “What about the papyrus?” I asked Antony.

  “Yes, that would be interesting,” he said. And so we went there, touring the warehouse where natron lay in regular piles to absorb any moisture that might cause mold or mildew on the precious scrolls—scrolls that were lying on miles of shelving, ready for distribution.

  “Blank scrolls,” he said. “I wonder what nonsense will fill them up?”

  “They are like newborn babies,” I said, plucking one off the shelf. This was the very highest grade. “It depends into whose hands they fall what they will grow into. This one here—it might be used for figures, or poetry of the highest order, or perhaps only household records.”

  “They wouldn’t buy this high-grade papyrus for lowly household records,” said Epaphroditus. “They would take grade three or four.” There were seven gradations, with the worst used only for school exercises. “We stack those over here.” He led us to them. They looked darker, yellower, and thicker.

  “I think you should deliver one of our tax records to my chambers in the palace,” I told Epaphroditus. “One should do.” I turned to Antony. “Unless you want to review them all?”

  “No, I’ve no need. I am not the—what was the word for the finance minister?”

  “Dioiketes,” I said. “Come, then. Let us depart.” I took one of the blank rolls for Caesarion to practice on—one of the best, of course.

  As we left, I turned to Epaphroditus. “I almost forgot!” I said. “The gold mines on the border of Nubia. Of course all that comes to me. Antony, would you like to see the gold?”

  Surprisingly, he shook his head. “No. I know what it looks like.”

  “But have you ever seen it not in bracelets, or ornaments, or coins, but in heaps? In huge piles?” I persisted.

  “No,” he said. “But I do not need to.”

  He was a most unusual man, I thought. Perhaps this would be harder than I thought.

  The afternoon shadows were slanting across the palace grounds by the time we returned. I was not through with him yet, for I still had to show him what I hoped would be the convincing finale to this whole demonstration. I could tell his interest was flagging; prolonged concentration was not his strong point. He was obviously longing to soak in a bath and indulge himself in a feast of some sort, probably with the Incomparables. But there would be no Incomparables tonight; I wanted Antony entirely to myself, for one of the most important pleas I would ever make.

  I took his hand and suggested we stroll on the green lawn surrounding the various palace buildings. “I want to show you a special building I am having constructed,” I said, leading him toward it.

  “Oh, no more buildings!” he groaned, pulling back.

  “Please!” I said. “This one is different!”

  “Why?” He did not even look curious.

  “Because it’s my tomb. My mausoleum. It is connected to the temple of Isis, the one overlooking the sea—”

  “How morbid! You are only twenty-nine, and building your tomb!” He looked horrified.

  “This is Egypt, remember? Tombs are fashionable.” I had started building it upon my return to Egypt, when after Caesar’s death, I knew too well my own mortality.

  I led him on, pulling him along over the cool green grass, starting to sprout early wildflowers. We reached the magnificent marble building, with its high steps and its polished entrance of red porphyry, flanked by sphinxes. It was only half finished, though, and had no second story or roof as yet.

  “It will have special doors that can never be reopened,” I said. “They will slide down a groove in the frame and, once set in place, will be immovable.”

  “Why are you showing me this?” he said with distaste.

  “Because I wanted you to see where I will be sealed for eternity, along with my personal treasure—unless it is spent elsewhere. That is for you to decide. Either it is used for a good purpose, or it will abide here, locked away, forever.”

  “I have nothing to do with it.”

  “Yes, you do,” I assured him. “Yes, you do.”

  It was night, a cool, moonless night. We had eaten a long, languorous meal with all his favorite foods, in privacy. There had been the special grilled fish of Alexandria, with its sauce of stoned damsons, lovage, wine mixed with honey, and vinegar, which he loved. There were plump grapes, kept moist all winter by soaking in rainwater in sealed jars, eggs cooked over embers of applewood, honey custard, and of course enough Chian wine to fill a small swimming pool. We were served in the portion of my apartments that I used for private dinners, with inlaid crescents of tortoiseshell on its walls.
He was stretched out on one of the dining couches, looking supremely content. Now. Now was the time.

  I got up from my couch and went over to his, sitting beside him and twining my hand in his. I touched his hair with my other hand, more for myself than for him, for I loved the feel of his thick hair. “I have something to show you,” I told him, keeping my voice low, although there was no one else to hear.

  “Oh, not more things,” he protested. “I’ve seen enough for one day.”

  But I slipped off the couch and brought over an inlaid box, which was fastened with a bronze lock. Opening it, I flung off the top and let him see the mound of jewels inside—pearls, emeralds, coral.

  “Put your hand in it,” I said, taking it and plunging it in. The smooth stones slipped around his fingers, and as he withdrew them, some gems bounced onto the floor. I did not pick them up.

  “I have many more like this,” I told him. “And there are storerooms of rare woods, ivory, silver, and gold. They will go with me into my tomb.”

  “Unless?” he said. “For you are not parading this out if you have truly decided, once and for all, to hide it away.”

  “Unless I can put all these resources to a better purpose,” I said.

  “Like what?” He sounded only vaguely curious.

  “Let me buy us the world instead.”

  He laughed. “I told you already, I don’t want the world. And if I did, you couldn’t buy it.”

  “I can buy armies, and armies can buy a world.” I let that statement lie there for him to ponder. “Just think, no more constraints. No haggling with Octavian about this legion or that, or who gets such-and-such ship. It can all be yours.”

  “And your price? For I am sure you do not offer this gratis.”

  Now he was beginning to sound like a merchant, although he seemed strangely ungreedy to grasp what I was dangling before him.

  “I wish to change places with Octavian,” I finally said.

  He roared with laughter. “And wear his sun hats and chest flannels? The summer sun is too hot for him, and the winter chill too cruel, so he has to protect himself before venturing out. He is quite a sight.”

  “And is such a man suited to rule the whole world? A little man who cannot face the sun or wind?” And wore built-up sandals, I remembered. “He imagines himself to be Caesar’s heir, but he is no such thing! Yet if you allow him to, he will grow and grow, like a mushroom spreading out in the dark. And you’ll awake to find yourself uprooted, toppled, while he flourishes.” I paused. Antony was listening attentively. “Pull him out while you still can. For it is certain that he means to do the same to you.”

  Was I making any sense to him? I had to continue. “The world is already under the sway of Rome. Make the transition easy. Form a partnership with me as your wife. I can administer the east, while you shepherd the west. Alexandria is ideally situated to rule the entire Mediterranean. And we have the resources, as you saw today.”

  “So that was what that little show was all about?” he said. “I knew it was not just sightseeing.” His voice had an ugly edge to it. “I could almost suspect you of planning all this from the beginning—maybe your trip to Tarsus and bringing me back here was just another show.”

  This was not going as I wished. “No—that isn’t true!” I said. “I admit I was proud of Egypt and wanted to show you my country. And I wanted to be with you a little longer. But I did not plan what would happen once you were here.”

  “You lured me here, after driving me mad with your devices—your costumes and perfumes and lights and other tricks. You made a fool of me, and you loved it,” he snapped. “It made you feel powerful. You would probably have responded exactly the same if it had been Octavian instead of me. You just like to ensnare men—and you don’t care how you do it.”

  How dare he imply that I would take just anybody? Octavian!

  “At Tarsus, you said it wasn’t the dinner on the ship; it went a long way back,” I countered.

  “Yes, because you always made it your business to make men want you.”

  I could not help laughing. “Then the desire arose from within yourself. When I was in Rome, I was entirely Caesar’s, and when you first came to Alexandria, I was only fourteen and more concerned with survival than anything else. I was not on the lookout for men.”

  “Maybe you can’t help it, but that’s the effect you have!”

  Now I understood. He was jealous and wanted reassurance. How fragile men were! Only Caesar had been exempt from this weakness.

  I reached out to touch his face, but he swatted my hand away, and sat pouting on the couch.

  “Now you try to entice me into betraying my word. I have sworn an oath to uphold the Triumvirate,” he insisted. “A man is only as good as his word.”

  “No, I have offered you my life, and all of Egypt. Is this to be scorned? I am Egypt—all its riches are mine, every palm tree and ripple in the Nile. What you saw today is the last unplundered treasure of the east. I offer it to you—something that has never been offered to anyone else in history. Many generals have come and tried to take it. I offer it to you, free. Instead you insult me and cry, ‘O Octavian! O the Triumvirate!’ Well, you are right about one thing—if I ever did make such an offer to Octavian, he wouldn’t be such a fool as to turn his back on it. Your precious Triumvirate wouldn’t last an eyeblink with him in the balance.” I paused to catch my breath. “So you are a fool—not for coming here, but for turning away from this offer.”

  He seized on the word fool. “So I’m a fool? That’s what you think of me! Well, I’ve sense enough to steer clear of this trap you’ve set, this trap that betrays every sense of honor. No, I won’t be your partner; no, I won’t go back on my word.”

  At that moment I debated with myself, because I still withheld one vital piece of information from him: the fact that I now knew for a certainty that I was with child. If I told him, he might reconsider.

  But I looked into his eyes, full of scorn and turmoil, and I knew I would not tell him. He had spurned my offer, insulted my honor, flung hurtful accusations at me. Now would I say, “Oh, by the way—” No, never!

  It was the worst decision I ever made, for it brought much sorrow upon us. But for women, too, a momentary pride can be the strongest of all pulls. And so I clamped my lips shut and turned away from him. I bent down and retrieved the jewel box, and with all the self-control at my command, walked straight-backed out of the room.

  Of course, later that night he came to my chamber, penitent. He knocked on the door and begged to be admitted. He embraced me and put his head in my lap and almost wept, saying he had not meant it. But he must have meant some of it, or the words would not have sprung so readily to his lips. He had revealed himself as a cauldron of jealousy and confusion, as well as a quaint sort of honor—he had no compunction about betraying his wife, but shrank with horror from betraying Octavian.

  “Forgive me, forgive me,” he cried, clasping me, burrowing his head against my thighs and stomach. “I just—I just—”

  I smoothed his hair, feeling oddly detached. He had hurt me badly by his accusations. That he would think those things of me, even in one corner of his mind, stung. “There, there,” I heard myself saying, mechanically. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, yes, it does!” His voice sounded tormented. “Something came over me, I don’t know, I didn’t mean it—you know I love you!”

  “Yes, of course.” I still felt remote. It was important to calm him. “Don’t think of it.”

  “You must believe me!”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Of course I believe you.” This was awful; I wished he would leave.

  He rose up and kissed me, but I found I didn’t want him even to touch me. Still, I did not push him away. That would just have made it worse, excited his suspicions further.

  “Show me that you do,” he was saying. I knew what he wanted. There was no escape—I would have to bear it.

  “Yes, of course,” I said, taking h
is hand, and leading him to his favorite place, my bed.

  He was a frantic lover, driven almost mad, it seemed, by his own torment and guilt and jealousy. Ordinarily it would have been supremely satisfying, but I kept out of it, so to speak. I did not allow myself to take any enjoyment from it, because my hurt was too deep to be plastered over by a few kisses and caresses.

  When he finally left, I rolled over and watched his retreating back, thinking, Tonight you have thrown away the world.

  48

  On the surface, things continued as usual. The bedroom visit seemed to have satisfied Antony, and he went back to his bluff self, laughing, drinking, playing with the Incomparables. He assumed I was likewise soothed and happy. The evening, and the things we had said, were never mentioned.

  Bulletins from the outside world kept coming in, and he was forced to acknowledge them. Late at night, returning from his days of pleasure, he would stay up reading them, alone and in the silence of his room. I would see the lights burning, and know that he was troubled with the news. Sometimes he would come and spend the rest of the night with me, never alluding to the contents of the letters. But I had my own sources of information, and I knew well enough that the Roman world was in turmoil. Perusia had fallen, and Octavian was merciless in punishing those who had rebelled against “the authority of the Triumvirate.” Scores of people were executed, and the ancient town was burned to ashes. Lucius had been captured, but Fulvia had escaped, along with Antony’s general Munatius Plancus. Where they were going, no one knew.

  In the meantime, Antony kept practicing at arms—a good sign—and sending out letters.

  Although I was determined not to speak of the night we had quarreled so bitterly, the words clung in my mind. I kept going over them, brooding on them. But I kept it to myself.

  One afternoon I happened to be present when a letter arrived for him, and it would have been so awkward to refuse to open it that Antony went ahead. Then politeness decreed that he let me read it. He was clearly reluctant to do so, but made the best of it.