The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  “Be that as it may, Queen Cleopatra, I do not think you would have spared Sextus, either.” He nodded toward me, smiling. “No one with any sense of self-preservation would. I had the reprobate in my hands, and I squeezed him—thus.” He made a choking motion with his hands. “I stopped his breath, so that Rome and Alexandria could draw theirs easier.”

  “Enough,” said Antony. “I will expect you to obey orders in the future, and when you have no orders, to wait for them.”

  “Can you honestly say they would have been different from what I did?” Titius was bold.

  “After the fact, one can never know.” Antony sighed, and shifted in his chair. “Now, during the campaign to Armenia, I shall rely on you to secure my back. Syria must be held tightly. I have received overtures from the Medians—they have changed sides for the thousandth time, and want to help us against, as they suppose, the Parthians. They shall not find Syria unguarded. I entrust its security to you, and your three legions.”

  “You will find me worthy of the trust, sir,” he said.

  After he left, I said, “I hope you have not made an enemy.”

  “Nonsense. He expected a dressing-down. He’s lucky I allowed him to retain his command.”

  “I don’t think you had much choice,” I reminded him.

  “Certainly I could have replaced him,” he said. “He is not the only young Roman general to hand.”

  “Isn’t he? Since Octavian has cut you off from Rome, and recruiting there, where will replacements come from?”

  “Is the east devoid of talent?”

  “Choosing a non-Roman would just fuel fears about the Asiatic hordes massing to overrun Rome,” I said. “You know that. It’s the one thing Rome dreads. They know the prophecies.”

  “Yes, and that they are to be led by a woman…my admiral.” He leaned over and touched my hand, lightly.

  The Median ambassador assured us that his master was so eager to have us as allies he was willing to betroth his only daughter Iotape to our son Alexander, and to make Alexander heir to his throne.

  “My most gracious King reaches out to embrace you,” was how he put it. “And to surrender his precious jewel, his only child and daughter, into your keeping.”

  I felt my heart grow heavy. Not my Alexander—not betrothed at only five years old! I remembered my own childhood, free from the shadow of forced marriage, because of the upheavals at court. Once I was a queen and not a princess, I had been free to select my own men. My children would not be so lucky.

  Of course I had not been entirely free; there were the dictated formal marriages to my two brothers. But I had ignored them, and taken the men I pleased.

  My children were all safe in Alexandria. Caesarion had returned from Rome, escaping whatever vague malevolence Octavian had planned for him. And I would not surrender them to the world so soon. But sometimes there is no choice for princes.

  The Median king had even released King Polemo of Pontus, that poor man who had been captured along with the siege train, and he made his way to us in Antioch, carrying the captured Roman eagles from the two slain legions.

  All that remained to redeem Roman honor was to take revenge on Artavasdes himself.

  “All hail for the birthdays of their most exalted persons, Imperator Marcus Antonius and Queen Cleopatra!” bellowed the chief steward. Antony and I stood at the entrance to the vast hall, decorated with boughs of evergreen and imitation flowers made of dried, colored reeds. So many candles and torches were blazing, it looked like a temple, and filling the chamber were our generals and their officers, military tribunes, and Syrian nobles and merchants. We posed, holding hands, smiling, never betraying our quarrel about what titles we should use.

  In truth, it was a delicate matter. Antony was both more and less than a king; as Autocrator—absolute personal ruler—he made and unmade kings. But the title of king was repugnant to Romans. And the title Triumvir—the Triumvirate was due to expire in two years, so it was best not to stress that. In Rome, Octavian’s person had lately been declared sacrosanct, and he was using “Triumvir” less and less. “Imperator,” meaning “commander-general,” was a good, neutral title, and Antony insisted on it for now.

  Our birthdays fell close enough together to be celebrated at the same time, early in the new year. Antony was now forty-eight, and I thirty-five. With a heaviness in my heart, I realized my once-youthful, exuberant lord was approaching the age Caesar had been when I first met him. Where had the years flown? A trite though, but they seemed to have winged past, as I recalled flickering images of Antony—the cavalryman in his late twenties, the oiled and leaping priest of Lupercal in the masterful prime years of his thirties. And now, to be almost fifty…

  Slow yourself, god of time, I begged. Halt your wagon, let us rest and look about, give us a moment free of changes.…. But I knew the cruel god would never grant the request. He was more merciless to those in his grip than Titius.

  I turned to look at Antony’s proud profile, still beautiful to me, still commanding, still saying to fate, I’ll meet you in single combat….

  Lifting my arm high, I was ready to descend.

  Strange how I did not grieve for my own lost years; I was incapable of seeing them through other eyes. We always think we have halted time in his flight, that there still remain many paths for us, unexplored, and of course we shall explore them; yes, we will….

  A loud shout of salute greeted us. The Incomparables were long gone, and it had been years since we had celebrated in such a raucous fashion, but it fitted our mood that winter night.

  Canidius Crassus, his face more weather-worn than ever, bent stiffly from his waist, then straightened up and slapped Antony’s forearm. “To the field once more, Imperator!” he said.

  “Jupiter himself grant us victory!” Plancus raised his arm in salute.

  King Polemo of Pontus—a soft-voiced and mannered man—presented us with a box of emeralds, and expressed his birthday wishes. “Aristotle says in his Rhetoric that the body is at its best between the ages of thirty and thirty-five, and the mind at its best about the age of forty-nine,” he said. “That means you both are in the enviable position of being at the best ages!”

  “I think it means together we make a perfect whole,” said Antony. “My mind in concert with her body.”

  Dellius sidled up to us, raising his eyebrows as if picturing something lascivious. I had never cared for his manner. “You are not the oldest general to take to the field,” he assured Antony, as if it were a matter of concern.

  “I have not thought of it,” said Antony. “The retreat from Parthia under those inhuman conditions proved me young enough.”

  “True, true.” Dellius was appraising him as if unconvinced.

  “And in any case, I am sending you to Armenia before the winter ends, so you—being younger—can test yourself in the snows.” Dellius looked alarmed. “I wish you to approach Artavasdes with an offer of…alliance. A marriage treaty between our children. He will refuse it, of course, and then we will have an excuse to attack. I have heard, from reliable sources, that he is trafficking with Octavian. Neither of them wishes me well. They are two of a kind.”

  I was shocked at his harsh public appraisal of Octavian—lumping him together with his betrayer Artavasdes!

  “Yes, sir,” said Dellius, looking about for an escape before Antony could assign him another unpalatable task. He scuttled—for his movement was sideways, like a beach crab—into the mass of guests.

  The torches burned bright; the walls resounded with glad high spirits. Plancus led the officers in a round praising Antony, calling him “Conquering Hercules” and “Beneficent Dionysus.” Their shouts seemed like a platform raising him high, lifting him up to the rafters. He had won their admiring loyalty in the courage and toughness of the retreat from Parthia, which he had borne and led so manfully.

  Even the piercing-eyed—and piercing-tongued—Ahenobarbus was gentle that night, and presented Antony with a gift of a new sw
ord of Chalybean tempered iron. “A new sword for a new conquest,” he said, the light of coming battle in his eyes. “Yet you must keep your old fighting style—coolness in the heat of battle, a splendid daring.”

  “Now you can give your old faithful one to Alexander, for his heritage,” I said.

  Antony took the new sword, and ran his thumb appreciatively along its finely honed blade.

  “I thank you,” he said to Ahenobarbus, “my friend.”

  Five braziers, fired so hot they almost glowed, kept the cold at bay in our sleeping chamber. The festivities over, we had piled our booty—the tribute from our captive guests—on a table and gratefully exchanged our stiff, constricting clothes for Syrian chamber-robes. We sat on thronelike chairs decorated with mother-of-pearl patterns, and sighed with relief.

  “That was tiring,” Antony admitted. He yawned.

  “It was nothing compared with the old days in Alexandria,” I reminded him. “Our evenings with the Incomparables…remember?”

  “I was younger then,” he said, without thinking. Then he realized how it sounded. “Perhaps I’ve just grown bored with it,” he suggested. “Same old people, same old songs.”

  “Not the same old wine, though,” I said. In this area, we drank Laodicean, not Falernian. I poured out a cup from the pitcher left for our pleasure, and handed it to him.

  “Wine never lets you down,” he said, sipping it.

  I disagreed, but did not say anything. Wine was a betrayer, and lately I felt it was betraying Antony. He was drinking too much of it, imagining it did not affect him, but it did. He sat silent for a few minutes, savoring the distinctive taste of this particular wine. Finally he said, “Tonight was the unveiling of our new empire.”

  “What do you mean?” His statement, coming out of nowhere, was puzzling.

  “It is useless to pretend any longer—or rather, for me to pretend any longer. Step by step I have been led into a strange role: ruler of a vast eastern empire, with an empress by my side. By Hercules, I did not mean it to happen!” His voice was touched with anguish, and he set the cup down. He ran both his hands through his hair, as if somehow that would straighten out his thoughts. “Tonight we played the roles well, standing side by side in all our eastern finery, accepting obeisance from our subjects—oh, what have you done to me?” He jumped up from the chair and started pulling at the gown, tearing it off. “Away! Get off!”

  Was he drunk? I looked at the cup, but it was only half-empty.

  “Off! Off!” He flung the gown away in disgust. “I have been transformed!” He looked down at himself, holding out his thick arms and staring at his hands. “All these rings!” He pulled them off and started throwing them on top of the crumpled gown. Then he kicked off his silk-embroidered sandals. They cartwheeled through the air, and one landed in the brazier and caught on fire.

  Antony burst into laughter at the sight of the smoking shoe. But he calmed down. “It is you who have done this,” he finally said. “Transformed me from a Roman magistrate into an eastern potentate.”

  “So Octavian has conquered even you,” I said, “with his lies and distortions.”

  “Behind his statements lies enough truth to be considered.” He began to shiver in the cold room, and grabbed a blanket from the bed rather than put on the offensive decorated gown.

  So now we must have this talk—and I had not prepared myself for it. I gave a quick prayer to Isis to help me keep my thoughts clear. “You look like a fool, huddled there in that blanket,” I said. “Almost as much of a fool as you sound.”

  He just looked at me, a picture of distress. “The truth pains me,” he finally said. “I do not think I can bear it.” He looked so miserable, my heart went out to him. I had never been torn between two worlds as he now was. Life had spared me that particular torture.

  I went over to him, where he had sunk down into the chair again. I stood behind him, putting my head near his and encircling his shoulders with my arms, like the statues of Horus protecting a Pharaoh. Now I was the strong one. Let me help him, dear Isis!

  “If you have been drawn into it step by step, it is because that was your fate,” I finally said. “And no one can repulse his fate. To refuse it is hopeless, and just makes its burden heavier. And each man’s fate is tailored to him, like a shirt. There is no second Alexander, no second Moses, no second Antony. You are the first and only to walk this earth. So you have to be the finest version of Antony possible.”

  I felt his head move from side to side, slowly.

  “It does no good to say you would rather be someone else, or covet his lot in life. You have been assigned your own portion. Because you are the foremost living general, it was natural that the rich eastern part of the Roman holdings would fall to you. That being so, it was natural that you would become a part of it. You have a rare sympathy with your subjects—”

  “Subjects! I have no subjects! I am not a king!” he cried out.

  “Very well, then, your…client kingdoms, your provinces.” I sighed. What difference did the name make? “You understand them, that is why you belong here. And it is true, the western half of Rome is yoked strangely with the eastern. They do not pull well together. Eventually they will break apart—that is, if they are both ruled by a western-thinking Roman. Only someone like you—a Roman bred and born, who can understand the east as well—can hold them together.”

  He was sitting as immobile as any Pharaoh’s statue. Was he even hearing my words—my raw, unrehearsed words? Were they helping at all?

  “It is you who are called to preserve Rome,” I said. “And it is not only because you have become partly eastern. As if anything could erase your glorious family history, your long years of service to Rome! No, that will endure. All you have done is to add another dimension, a new understanding on top of the old. It is what will make you the ruler Rome has earned, and deserves.”

  “I am not a ruler!”

  “I meant leader,” I assured him. “And when we lead, what a new dawn! The world is much richer than the narrow vision of the Roman patriot, who eats his plain porridge, straps on his sturdy sandals, and scurries past the altars of foreign gods, looking neither to the left nor the right.”

  Antony laughed, faintly. This encouraged me to continue.

  “You know the sort. Wearing his rough homespun, speaking only Latin, feeling threatened by Greek poetry, plum sauce, and the sound of sistrums. What would be the fate of all your…client kingdoms…to be ruled by such a man?”

  “A rather austere one,” he said.

  “If your fate is here, then embrace it! Rejoice in it! Give thanks to the gods that they made you the master of these people you understand so well, and cherish so dearly! It does not make you any less a Roman to be a citizen of the world as well—no matter what Octavian says! It makes you greater!” Was he listening? “And I tell you this—you will be their salvation. If Octavian becomes their ruler—and he will not demur to call himself that, I assure you—they will suffer. Oh, how they will suffer!”

  A long silence hung in the air. Finally he said, “You understand the east well, but I do not think you understand Rome. You reduce her to the same caricatures that you so resent Romans doing to easterners. The ignorant, barbaric Roman eating his porridge is just as false as the wily, effeminate easterner.”

  “You see! You have just proved my point! You have the wisdom and understanding to see both sides! It is you, and only you, destined to rule—lead—the entire Roman world.”

  “I do see the merits of both,” he admitted.

  “As did Caesar. He understood, as do you, that all citizens of Rome must be equal, and each side respect the other. Do not shirk your responsibility!”

  “And how will they ever accept you, by my side, in Rome?” he asked sadly. “They are not as broad-minded as your idealized world citizens.”

  “They are being taught to hate me,” I said. “But when they see me, in person, when they realize they have nothing to fear from me…Anyway, th
at is a long time coming. First you must remove Octavian!” I repeated the words slowly, directly in his ear. “You…must…remove…Octavian.”

  “Under what color?”

  “First oust him from the seat of Caesar. Declare him a pretender, and prove it, and you have removed his basis of power.”

  “His basis, yes, but not the power itself. That resides in all his legions. And in his stranglehold on Italy.”

  “First the basis, then the power itself. Announce the rights of Caesarion, and challenge Octavian. Then be bold, and proclaim the eastern empire as an entity. Provoke him. The sooner the fight is held, the surer your chances of victory. Day by day he grows stronger.”

  “Perhaps fate will do my work for me,” he said. “If you believe in fate, then fate will give Rome the ruler she deserves, with no help from us. Octavian is still fighting in Illyria. Perhaps he’ll die there. I hear he has injured his knee—”

  “Caesar always said if luck did not go our way, then we had to give luck a helping hand,” I said.

  “I am no second Caesar, as you pointed out.”

  “I know I am right! Please follow my plan!”

  He sighed. “After Armenia—”

  “Yes, of course, after Armenia. That gives you time to perfect your plans.”

  “Yes, my love.” At last he turned around and buried his head against my shoulder. “We will make our empire together…my empress.” He rose and took my hand. “Come to bed, and celebrate our multitudinous kingdoms. Let us make love in all their fashions. They are as varied as their clothes and cooking…. Shall we introduce them to Rome? Enrich their lives?” He laughed, my old Antony restored. “Or shall we imitate Octavian’s way tonight? I am sure it is unimaginative, but thoroughly and officially Roman.”

  “No,” I said. “Let Livia enjoy it.”

  “I understand,” said Antony, “that Livia is not the only one to sample his practices, whatever they may be. He is busy in the beds of other men’s wives.”

  Then he had not changed much. I would not have such a husband for all the gold in the Temple of Saturn!