The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  “Doubtless repeated to them every night by their adoring mothers,” he said. “Just who are these people? And no cheating with gods and goddesses.”

  I had to think. “Well, what about Alexander and the oracle at Siwa?”

  “He was already a king, already a conqueror. What difference did the oracle make?”

  “You are such a scoffer!”

  He shook his head and indicated the arguing astrologers. “Someone has to be.”

  The calculated moment approached, and then passed. It seemed as if nothing had happened. But gradually we perceived a dimming of the light—no, not a dimming. Rather, a peculiar sort of dilution of the light, as if it grew thinner and thinner without actually growing dark. As I looked out on the white stones of the Lighthouse, and to the boats, it was as if I were looking through a veil, but it was so subtle it did not distort the colors. It was the oddest light I had ever seen.

  There were still shadows, but although the contrast was sharp, that attenuated light almost seemed to suck away the air we needed to breathe, rarefying everything.

  It was not like night, no, nothing like it. And whoever had predicted that had not thought the matter through. The sun continues to light the sky for a while after it descends below the horizon, and it did so all the more now, since it was almost at its zenith. The sky around it stayed blue. It is true that the birds stopped flying, puzzled by the change in light. But the eclipse did not last long enough to let animals creep off to dens and go to sleep.

  As gradually as it had crept across the sun, the eclipse passed away. And we were left standing, blinking, in the renewed sunlight, which seemed oddly thick and meaty, robust and yellow.

  A few nights later I secreted myself in a private corner, dismissed Charmian and Iras, and pored over the prophecies, which I had obtained quietly. Regardless of Olympos’s mockery, I felt that the eclipse was telling me something, if I only had eyes to see. High events of state were taking place now in Rome, there had not been such an eclipse in years—what could be plainer? And it was not an eclipse of the moon, when the earth cast a shadow, but the moon blotting out the sun—of course it pertained to a woman, as the astrologers had stated.

  One prophecy, a long prediction from the Sibylline Leaves, a collection of eastern verses, might refer to her—to me. Especially two of its verses:

  The wealth that Rome as tribute from Asia has taken away,

  Asia shall thrice as much get back from Rome on a future day.

  Insolent Rome shall be judged, Rome to the full shall pay.

  How many Asian folk as slaves in Italy stay.

  There yet shall toil in Asia twenty times as many

  Italians, a host rejected, cast without a penny.

  O Rome, luxurious Rome of gold, you Latin child,

  Virgin drunken with lust in many beds you’ve run wild,

  but you’ll be married without due rites, a slave-slut of despair,

  while still the Queen crops off your delicate head of hair

  and uttering judgments will hurl you to earth from the sky,

  then take up from the earth and set you on high again.

  Another of the Leaves seemed even more specific:

  And while Rome will be hesitating over

  the conquest of Egypt, then the mighty Queen

  of the Immortal King will appear among men.

  And then the implacable Wrath of the Latin men.

  Three will subdue Rome with a pitiful fate.

  Three—the Triumvirate! It seemed glaringly obvious. Egypt, the mighty Queen—me. And the Immortal King must be Caesar, the deified Caesar.

  And yet another verse:

  And then the whole wide world under a Woman’s hand

  ruled and obeying everywhere shall stand,

  and when the Widow shall queen the whole wide world…

  The Widow must be me, as Caesar’s true widow. Still another went:

  All the confronting stars fall into the sea,

  many new stars arise in turn, and the star

  of radiance named by men the Comet, a sign

  of emerging troubles, of war and of disaster.

  But when the Tenth Generation goes down to Hades,

  there comes a Woman’s great power. By her will God

  multiply fine things, when royal dignity

  and crown she takes. A whole year then will be prospering eternity.

  Common for all then is life, and all property.

  Earth will be free for all, unwalled, unfenced,

  and bringing forth more fruits than ever before

  it will yield springs of sweet wine, white milk, and honey.

  I felt shaken to read these lines. The Comet…Caesar…more war and disaster, then a woman ruling….

  There were other prophecies, too, one by an oracle called Hystaspes, predicting the violent transfer of power from Rome to a leader of the east. No wonder this was forbidden, upon pain of death, to circulate in Rome! There was a Prophecy of the Mad Praetor, which foretold a mighty Asian army and the enslavement of Rome; a Potter’s Oracle, and other sibylline verses.

  But the most unmistakable were the verses about the Widow, and the Comet, and the Three, the Triumvirate. The eclipse had given notice: the woman, the widow, was soon to be called to her destiny. My hour had almost come. I had to be ready.

  The heavens are kind; they seek to prepare us, if we just hear their messages.

  Now another sentence called itself to my attention. As the mighty age is fulfilled, “You shall no longer be the Widow, you shall mate with the lion.”

  Antony’s Hercules, symbol of the lion—Hercules statues always show him draped in a lionskin—was what was meant. The heavens decreed that we be as we had been, and would be again.

  Now, as I sit in the state I am in, I wonder why the gods give us a little glimpse of our destiny, if they do not mean to tell it all. Half-truths can be crueler than outright lies. Olympos was right—they lead you astray.

  News floated to us in tantalizing pieces, like driftwood coming across the seas. Antony and Ahenobarbus had reached Brundisium, which had closed its gates against them, fortified with one of Octavian’s garrisons. Antony cut the town off by constructing walls and ditches, and Octavian began moving troops down to counter him. Antony led a brilliant cavalry maneuver and captured an entire regiment and a half. Octavian called for help from Agrippa, asking him to mobilize the veterans and bring them south. Each saw the other acting as an enemy, and reacted accordingly.

  It looked as if all-out war would soon erupt. That was good—good for Antony. The sooner they could grapple and fight, the better. For, as I had told him, Octavian would only grow stronger, unless Antony stopped him.

  Then—silence.

  Word was brought to me that Herod had arrived on my eastern frontier, at Pelusium. My commander there allowed him to transfer to a ship, and he sailed into my harbor in a ratty old vessel that looked near to sinking.

  In preparation for his visit, I had consulted with Epaphroditus, and been reprimanded for my ignorance. I had thought to have a welcome banquet, but Epaphroditus said, “He cannot eat with you, nor can I—as you know.”

  Yes, I knew that he preferred not to, citing his religion. But I had never pursued the reason why. “I won’t serve pork, if that’s what you mean!” I said defensively. I knew Jews did not eat pork; neither did Egyptians, for that matter.

  Epaphroditus smiled. Over the years he had finally lost his stiff manner around me. “Oh, that’s the least of it,” he said. “If it were only just pork—or oysters! No, he cannot even sit with you to eat, because of all the regulations about how the vessels must have been cleaned, and what can touch each other, and what foods can be served together.”

  “What am I to do? Never eat the entire time he is here?” This presented a diplomatic dilemma. I was supposed to honor him, as Antony’s friend, but how?

  “I can send someone to help plan the menu, but I am afraid you will have to buy all new tableware
and have your kitchens purified—er, ritually, I mean.” Then he had a thought. “On the other hand, maybe he won’t care. He isn’t a real Jew, you know.”

  “What do you mean?” This was becoming more and more puzzling.

  “His forebears were Idumaeans, and his mother was an—an Arab!” He looked disdainful. “Of course he calls himself a Jew, but I wonder how deep it goes. Politically, he has to—I mean, what other constituency does he have? But perhaps it’s something he sheds the moment he leaves the country.”

  “But I won’t know that in advance.” I sighed. “I have to go on the assumption that he takes it seriously. And change my kitchen!”

  “I will sound him out,” said Epaphroditus. “Believe me, I can tell. And in the meantime—well, I shall enjoy my first banquet in the palace, after how many years? About seven, I think. High time!”

  “Then, dear friend, it is worth it!”

  Herod was announced by his aide-de-camp, and assigned to his quarters. I wondered—too late—whether there were also ritual things that should have been done to his apartments to render them suitable. He would present himself in the late afternoon, his aide said.

  I was awaiting him on what I always thought of as my “informal” throne; it was a throne, but plain and not much elevated. I wore a gold brocaded coat, the workmanship of his own country, partly out of flattery, and partly because it was stiff and heavy, standing far out from the body and disguising what lay beneath.

  Late-afternoon shadows, thrown by the columns, were slanting across the floor when Herod walked in, his white and gold robes shining. He walked beautifully, and there was a smile of such genuineness on his face that no one could disbelieve it.

  “Hail, renowned Queen of Egypt.” He looked at me, as if he were seeing a blinding sight. “All reports of your beauty fall far short. I am—I am speechless.”

  And such was his expression, the tone of his voice, that you believed he was absolutely sincere.

  “We greet you, Herod of Judaea, and welcome you,” I said.

  “And the voice to go with the face!” He paused. “Forgive me for my boldness, Majesty.”

  I already knew I had a pleasing voice; so again, it did not seem like blatant flattery. “Such boldness is easily forgiven,” I said. “I am pleased that you have arrived safely. You must tell me of the state of affairs in your country.” I stood up and descended from the throne. “Let us walk about the porticoes; you should see the harbor at sunset.”

  It was possible to walk around the entire periphery of the main palace building, sheltered by colonnaded walks, and see the harbor from all vantage points. As we swept out of the room together—a flock of attendants keeping a discreet distance—I was aware of what a commanding figure he was. Tall, graceful, with the confidence and bearing of the born soldier and ruler. Out of the corner of my eye I assessed his face: he had the Arab beauty of features, the golden skin, dark melting eyes, thin lips, high nose, and thick eyelashes.

  “So you are on your way to Rome?” I asked. “You have a long way yet to go.”

  “It is imperative that I reach the Triumvirs. I escaped from Judaea by the skin of my teeth. I know Antony plans to make war against the Parthians who have overrun my country! I will do anything to help him.”

  I could not help liking him. “You might perhaps do more good by staying here. I am in need of a good commander of my troops; I too am on alert and arming against the Parthians.”

  He shook his head, but his demurral was more charming than someone else’s assent. “Antony will need me,” he said.

  “You helped him—and me—once before,” I said. “When Gabinius restored my father to the throne.”

  “Indeed. That is when I first met Antony; I was only sixteen.”

  “And already commanding troops.”

  “One comes of age early in Judaea,” he said self-effacingly. “But Antony was older then, and I remember how struck he was by you at the time. He commented many times on it.”

  Now he was beginning to invent freely, I feared. But…could it have been true? Antony had alluded to it himself. That is the real power of people who know the tricks of ingratiating themselves; they mix the truth with what serves them best, and they make us want to believe it—we do their work for them. We urge them on, asking for more.

  “Ah, well, that was long ago.” I stopped as we reached the outside, and pointed out the harbor spreading out before us. My pride swelled, as it always did, when I surveyed my jewel, my possession: Alexandria.

  “What a sight!” he said.

  The sun was burnishing a path across the tossing sea and the calmer, flat waters within the harbor. The sails of the multitude of ships were painted golden red as they rocked at anchor.

  “The greatest harbor in the world,” he said. “What I would not give for such a harbor in Judaea. All we have is miserable little Joppa. Still,” he hastened to say, “it is better than nothing. At least we have an outlet to the sea.”

  “Every inch of land there is so contested,” I observed, more to myself than to him. “How many lives have been lost fighting over Jerusalem? Yet it is not special in terms of architecture, or location, or works of art.”

  “I will make it so!” he said fiercely. “Provided I am given the chance. The chance that only Antony can grant.”

  Only Antony. We waited to see what he would do. Herod and I, for different reasons.

  “First you must reach Italy. I will provide you with a ship. He is not in Rome, though, but in Brundisium. My news is old, but the last I heard, he and Octavian were facing each other there. By now they are most likely at war.”

  He groaned. “I flee war in Judaea only to find it in Italy.”

  “We are not at war here,” I reminded him. “Perhaps it would be wiser to wait, stay in Egypt. Command my troops, and when Antony comes east again—”

  “No, I must go now. They must not reach any agreement without me!”

  As well he knew, his presence could be very persuasive.

  Thanks to Epaphroditus, my welcoming banquet was a complete success. The menu omitted all the things hateful to a practitioner of the Jewish religion, and the table was set with newly acquired brightly patterned plates from Rhosus, in Syria—unsullied by forbidden foods.

  Herod had changed clothes—for a near-refugee he seemed to have brought an extensive wardrobe—and was now in royal purple, with a diadem. He was a prince, and wanted that made clear. He and his loyal companions were placed in the appropriate places indicating their rank, and acquitted themselves well. They were delightful dinner companions, conversant with all the fashions in poetry and art, dining and entertainment. Politics, being an embarrassment, was not discussed. But Epaphroditus relentlessly attempted to pin him down.

  “And so Judaea is still in the grip of the Parthians,” he said, shaking his head. “May it soon be liberated.” He paused. “And when it is, you must immediately cleanse and restore the Temple!”

  Herod turned those liquid eyes on him. “Oh, I plan to do more than that,” he said quietly. “It is time that the Temple of Jerusalem be rebuilt in accordance with its importance.”

  “Its importance?” asked Mardian, frowning. “Forgive me, I don’t understand.”

  “The Temple is holy,” said Herod.

  “So are all temples,” said Mardian, with a forbearing smile. “Our temple to Serapis, for example—”

  “The god Serapis did not give explicit instructions for the construction of his temple here,” said Herod, his mask of pleasingness starting to slip. “Ours did.”

  Mardian laughed. “Gods have their ways.”

  “We believe there is only one god,” said Herod. “And he gave us instructions.”

  “But ours—” an Egyptian started to say, but I stopped him with a look.

  “The day after tomorrow is the Sabbath,” said Epaphroditus. “Surely you will wish to come with me to the worship at our synagogue—the largest synagogue in the world—since you are so devout.”
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  Herod smiled, and nodded.

  “What is a synagogue?” someone farther down the table asked.

  Herod stayed in Alexandria for twenty days, fending off Epaphroditus’s attempts to force him to take a stand one way or another—to declare himself a true Jew or not. I sensed in him the conflict between a person who is born, or called to, a particular allegiance, only to find it blocking his ambition. There is nothing more wrenching. Only a very few find glory in being martyrs—Cato for the Republic, Spartacus for slaves, the Israelite prophets for their god. All others long to fulfill their talents, their destinies; they do not easily sacrifice them on an altar, slaying them like a placid white bull. In that, Herod was only human.

  In the end, he sailed away in a ship I provided, tracking westward into the setting sun, seeking Italy. What he would find there we could not guess. And I was back to waiting, waiting, waiting, for the outcome, which affected me as much as Herod.

  “I don’t want to be cruel, but you are simply enormous!” Olympos blurted out when he came to see me about a month after Herod’s departure. His face, usually so guarded, registered dismay and bafflement.

  “Dear old Olympos,” I said. “Always so tactful! So diplomatic! So thoughtful!” His words were wounding. I knew I was big. The gowns, and even the brocade coat, no longer served.

  “Are you absolutely sure about the—the timing?” he asked cautiously.

  “Well, I know a date it could not be before,” I said. “And that is the one I chose.”

  He shook his head. “Please—may I?” He reached out his hand toward my belly.

  “Oh, go ahead,” I said. “And you might as well feel it directly. Be my physician today instead of my companion.”

  He poked and jabbed with both hands, right on my bare flesh, after discreetly unfastening the front panel—lately added—of my gown. He frowned as he did so, until gradually enlightenment came to him.

  “Ah,” he said, finally. He took his hands away.