The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  “I shall grant one to myself!” he suddenly said.

  O Isis! And go to Rome? I felt my heart slow in its beating. He was due two of them: one that he shared with Bassus, and now the one against the Armenians.

  “I shall hold one here, in Alexandria!” he continued. “What is magical about Rome? To whom do I wish to present my spoils? Is it not you, my Queen? I fought in spite of Rome, in spite of their cutting off my recruitments, with my own eastern soldiers and the remnants of my old legions. Why not here?”

  He wanted it so badly. But a Triumph was not a Triumph outside Rome. It was connected with Rome, granted by the Senate, and its spoils were to be laid at the feet of the Roman god, Jupiter Maximus, in his temple on the Capitoline hill.

  “You can celebrate your victory here,” I said. “Although it cannot be a true Triumph. That can only be granted by the Roman Senate. But certainly, Alexandria would make a fine setting for a victory parade…”

  I sat on a golden throne, raised high on a silver platform, on the steps of the Temple of Serapis. I had granted Antony his wish, and ordered Alexandria scrubbed and prepared for his celebration. My heart ached for him, a man passed over in his native land. He was truly a son of Rome, but they had cast him out. Well, the day would come when they would welcome him—nay, not only welcome him, but bow low in homage. Yes, that day would come! And sooner than they thought!

  His procession had started out from the palace at an early hour, and it was still winding its way through the streets, past the harbor and the Temple of Neptune, out the broad white street of Canopus, so all the cheering crowds could see, then back again past the hill of Pan, where it would turn west. It would pass the solemn intersection of the Street of the Soma and the Canopic Way, paying homage to the tomb where the body of Alexander lay, and the Mausoleum of the Ptolemies, then the Gymnasion and law courts, where, on both sides, the masses would be packed between the colonnades. The windows and steps of the Museion would be crowded with scholars and their students, as eager to catch a glimpse as anyone else. And then, last of all, Antony would process here, to me, at the Serapion. Here I awaited him, with all my court spread out on the steps of the great building.

  I could hear the distant shouts as he approached. Each section of the city rose and cheered as the troops, the prisoners, the chariots, the spoils of war, passed by. I watched my children, arrayed on both sides of me like wings, sitting straight and straining their eyes for the moment when the procession would first come into view. It was a sight the children of Rome were well acquainted with; I remembered the hordes at Caesar’s. In his Roman tunic and cloak, Caesarion looked every bit the son of Caesar—if only Octavian could see him now! Alexander and Selene were dressed in Greek clothing, and the restless Alexander was thumping his sandaled feet against the silver rungs of his chair of state. I myself was dressed, as befitted a ceremony at the Serapion and the Shrine of Isis, in the costume of the goddess. To all the people gathered here today, I was the visual reminder of her, the earthly representative of Isis. The silver-threaded gown, with its pleats covering my shoulders and breasts like ripples of water, had a prominent knot of the thin, precious material between my breasts—the emblematic knot of Isis. I wore a heavy wig, one that had long braids adorned with silver ornaments that twinkled in the sun.

  From our vantage point on the hill, I could see the throngs of people spread out on all sides like a carpet. Each dot of black hair, each red tunic, each yellow cloak, helped to make a pattern that was more intricate than any woven textile that came from Arabia. And far behind them, in the distance, the piercing blue of the sea made a border.

  My carpet! My people! My Alexandria—city like no other on earth, a variegated, magnificent whole, a new heaven, a new kingdom. The first of the vision Antony and I had for our empire—or, rather, that I had and that Antony understood.

  Now we saw them; a murmur ran through the air. The shields of the soldiers were glinting, catching the sun, as if they were signaling. The drums and flutes kept rhythm with their marching, the sound of their hobnailed sandals ringing on the paved street.

  First came the Macedonian Household Troops, my own traditional bodyguard. They, and they alone, had the letter C on their shields, as they always had. The two Roman legions marching after them had no such thing—regardless of the lies told later! They carried only their usual round, leather-covered shields that said nothing whatever on them.

  Behind them followed Antony in a gold chariot drawn by four white horses, as in a Roman Triumph. But instead of the purple general’s cloak, the laurel wreath, and the scepter, Antony’s head was entwined with the ivy, he wore a golden robe—blinding to look upon—and carried the wand of Dionysus. It was as Dionysus that he presented his spoils to Isis.

  His face was shining, tanned, and he was grinning as he acknowledged the shouts rising on all sides of him. I knew how thirsty he was for them, what balm they were to him. He had always been a loyal lieutenant, carrying out missions for others with courage and flair, but the cheers had never been bestowed on him alone. Now they were, and I wished I could magnify them until all the buildings rang like a bell, deafening us.

  Marching behind Antony’s chariot, straight and proud in spite of the heavy chains, swayed King Artavasdes and his queen, as well as several of his children. They were covered with dust, hot and weary from the long walk amid the jeers and hostility. That man! His scented ringlets were no longer dressed and curled, but dull and drooping. And where were his rings now? His only jewelry were the silver manacles that adorned his wrists and ankles. And all the oily compliments and poetry that had greased his treachery!

  I glared at him. Because of him, forty-two thousand men had lost their lives. Even if he were butchered, cut into forty-two thousand pieces himself, it could not repay them. One death could never balance all the deaths he had caused.

  He stood at the foot of the steps, waiting, while the rest of the lengthy procession continued, then took their places in the open ground around the temple. A host of wretched Armenian prisoners were paraded past, common people and slaves who had been captured. Next came a long train of carts laden with booty. Armenia was—had been!—wealthy in gold. No more. It was all on the wagons.

  The wagons. How many of them were there? Twenty? Thirty? But how many wagons had been in the Roman baggage train? Three hundred? Even thirty wagons loaded with gold could not compensate for the loss of those crucial support wagons. After the fact, nothing ever seems to compensate. Killing the assassins was necessary, but it did not undo Caesar’s murder. Nor did this undo the devastation caused by the despicable Artavasdes.

  The client kings had all sent representatives, along with golden crowns for the victor—so Cappadocia, Pontus, Lycia, Galatia, Paphlagonia, Thrace, Mauretania, Judaea, Commagene, all were there, wearing their distinctive national dress.

  Another Roman legion, Gallic cavalry, then an Egyptian contingent, mounted bowmen from Media, light cavalry from Pontus, along with the musicians, brought up the rear and halted.

  Antony dismounted, his golden cloak swirling out behind him. He walked slowly over to Artavasdes, then past him, and began ascending the steps of the temple to those of us waiting for him. Roman soldiers prodded Artavasdes to follow, and he began heaving his feet up the steps, dragging the chains.

  The sun glinted off Antony’s head, showing the thick, still-dark hair curling around the ivy wreath, healthy brown against the green. He was smiling, clearly enjoying every moment of this day.

  “Queen of Egypt, Daughter of Isis, Friend and Ally of Rome,” he shouted, his voice—so famed for outdoor oratory—ringing out and filling the entire area, as rich to the ears as his gold cloak was to the eyes. “I present to you today this most noble prisoner, a king who now regrets his treachery and wishes to salute you.”

  The soldiers nudged Artavasdes forward with their spears, and he moved one step upward. His liquid dark eyes met mine.

  He was supposed to fall on his knees and do obeisance�
�or, at the very least, greet me by all my titles, then beg forgiveness for his offense. Instead he clamped his mouth shut.

  “Salute the Queen, Her Most Noble Majesty, Pharaoh of Egypt and all its lands and territories.”

  His mouth remained closed, his head up, his shoulders squared.

  “King Artavasdes,” said Antony, “you must acknowledge the Queen, who owns your very life at this point, as do I.” His voice had hardened.

  Still the Armenian monarch stood there, mute by defiance.

  “Speak!” commanded Antony.

  The soldiers withdrew their short daggers and held them under Artavasdes’ ribs. I could see the indentation in his tunic. One move from him and the dagger points would pierce the fabric. Even his breathing was going to leave a prick-mark.

  “Greetings, Cleopatra,” he said loudly.

  There was a communal gasp. To call me by my personal name, no title, in a public ceremony—he, an enemy! Truly, the man was insolent—proud and foolish—past reason. It was fitting he was off his throne; Armenia deserved better.

  “Greetings, Cleopatra,” he repeated, even louder. He managed to draw out the syllables until the word sounded as long as the doomed baggage train.

  “Greetings, conquered traitor,” I answered. I would go him one better and not even use his name; reduce him to a thing.

  I nodded, and Antony signaled for him to be taken away. The two soldiers complied, lifting him up by the shoulders and carrying him, his legs stiff, down the steps.

  Did he think, since prisoners were traditionally executed immediately following a Triumph, that these would be remembered as his last words? Make him famous?

  Antony now turned to enter the temple and make sacrifice to Serapis. The priests surrounding us on the steps, and the priestesses, shook their sistrums, and the hissing rattles filled the air. Antony disappeared into the dark recesses of the temple, his gold cloak swallowed up in the gloom that filled the temple even on a bright day.

  Afterward followed feasts for the people of Alexandria; as in Rome, tables were set up all over the city, and the public invited to help themselves to meat, cakes, and endless wine, all at the palace’s expense. Antony went out among his soldiers and presided over the tables of legionaries, then betook himself to roaming throughout the city, dropping in on celebrants, joining in their revelry. Would Dionysus have done less?

  But I remained in the palace, enjoying the feast-tables set up on our grounds. All my household servants, officers, and friends were wandering under the lighted trees, drinking, singing—albeit more decorously than the songs filling the streets of Alexandria.

  It was growing light before Antony returned, not tired or staggering but exhilarated. His cloak was gone and his fine tunic wrinkled and sweat-stained; around his neck were garlands of flowers and grass necklaces. He had been hailed, saluted, feasted, and adored, and he was glowing with it, as rosy as the color coming up in the east. He ran across the grass and swept me up in his arms like the young cavalry officer that he still was inside, swung me around, my feet flying off the ground. It made me dizzy, but he roared with laughter.

  “Come!” He took my hand and made me run up the steps to the Temple of Isis, which stood near the open sea. “Let us watch the dawn come up from here. This day is not over until the sun rises anew.”

  Six days later I was again on a gold throne, raised high on a silver platform, again dressed as Isis, for another ceremony. Again my children were nearby, and again, Antony presided. But, oh! how different in intent and ritual. For this ceremony was the declaration, the inauguration, of our eastern empire.

  We had put the final touches on it late at night some three days after the Triumph. Workers were still sweeping the streets clean, carts were still trundling out of the city piled high with the debris from the feasting; I did not want dogs and crows scavenging. Together we had decided not to put Artavasdes to death, but keep him imprisoned. Let this Triumph—or Dionysian revel—proclaim its difference from its Roman counterpart in this way. Our regime would not be so cruel.

  “Although it was different, and not, strictly speaking, a Triumph, it will anger the Romans,” I pointed out to Antony. “Just as soon as they hear of it.”

  “I care not,” he had shrugged, leaning back on his couch. His hand groped for a bolster for his shoulder.

  “I think you do,” I said. “It is not in your nature to anger people on purpose.” I paused. “How clever of you to make it just different enough from a Roman Triumph that if you wish, you can say that was never your intention. ‘After all, I dressed as Dionysus, not a Roman general, so how could anyone possibly think I meant…?’”

  “It was not that deliberate,” he said. “It is just that…here I am Dionysus to your Aphrodite, to the Greeks at least. To the Egyptians I am Osiris to your Isis. All that is unknown at Rome. It seemed more fitting…” His voice trailed off.

  Slowly Antony had allowed himself to “become” a god here in the east. It had started when he was hailed that way at Ephesus after Philippi. Then he had played Dionysus at Tarsus. Next, in Athens, he and Octavia had been dubbed “Gods of Good Works” and Antony called “the New Dionysus.” To commemorate that, he had issued coins picturing himself as Dionysus. Next he allowed himself to be proclaimed Dionysus in all the cities of the east. The final step, after our marriage, was being worshiped throughout Egypt as a god, Dionysus-Osiris with Aphrodite-Isis.

  “You have outstripped Octavian,” I had teased him. “After all, he is only the son of a god!”

  As always when Octavian’s name was mentioned, even in fun, Antony’s face clouded. “I have no intention of competing with him for titles of divinity!” he said haughtily—as haughtily as any god.

  “Now that you have embraced your godhood, I think you must have a temple,” I said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he countered.

  “I am serious. Caesar has one, and so should you. Octavian is building a temple to his new ‘patron,’ Apollo, right next to his house—how blatant. It is all the rage. You must have one, too.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “I will have a building overlooking the harbor put up in your honor. I will call it the Antoneum. Or perhaps the Basilica of the Divine Antony—Divus Antonius.”

  He laughed. “Do as you will,” he said. But I could tell he was pleased. It is a rare human being who does not get a warm glow from an honor, especially something as tangible as a statue—or a building!

  “Here in the east, any authority is given divine honors—even city magistrates. Of course, that is not the same as divinity. Pompey was hailed as a god, his client Theophanes as ‘savior and benefactor.’ ”

  “But these subtle differences—we cannot expect them to be understood in Rome. And in Rome, Dionysus carries a different image from our eastern one. Here he is a rich, benevolent god; he brings fertility, joy, expansion. He is seen as patron of artists and creativity, of civilization itself. There he’s reduced to revelry, drunkenness, Pans and satyrs. It makes it easy for my Roman enemies to attack me.”

  I was struck by one thing. “Artists, creativity—it seems that Apollo has usurped these attributes in Rome. And Octavian has lately embraced Apollo, as if both of you are fighting over who can lead the world most creatively.”

  “The creativity of Dionysus springs from inner, unnameable forces,” said Antony. “It is that which leaps up, unbidden, unexpected, that makes original connections, surprising even the artist himself, because he does not know where it came from and cannot predict its arrival. That is what makes it seem divine, even to its holder.” He got up from the couch and stood over a small mosaic I had installed in our chamber. It showed a scene from the Nile: tall papyrus reeds, hippopotamuses, boats, and birds. “Who ever first thought of arranging little stones to make a picture? And this picture—it existed inside the artist’s head before a single stone was laid. Or perhaps it grew out of the first stone, uncurling like a fern stalk!” He was growing more and more excited. “And th
e ideas come and go as they will; they can depart suddenly and without notice. Of all men, I think the artist feels most under the dominance and caprice of the god Dionysus.”

  I was struck by his personal knowledge of this. “I think you must have been visited this way yourself,” I said.

  “Well, I have never wanted to paint,” he said quickly. “But, it is true…even a battle strategy can suddenly present itself out of nowhere, like an inspiration….” He shook his head, as if to scare away any hovering visitations. “But Apollo is the god of rationality, of ordered thinking. That is the exact opposite of the nameless passion of creation.”

  “One needs both, I think. The empire needs both. We need officials who can think calmly and logically, but not be entirely bound by rules.” As I spoke, I knew I was dreaming.

  “Such an empire, staffed by such paragons, cannot exist on this earth. We must make do with faulty men and chance.” He was still studying the mosaic. “Egypt has a mighty past.”

  “And a strong present,” I said. “But what of the future? What is the future of Egypt?” The prediction of old Ipuwer concerning the silence of the gods troubled me.

  “I will tell you,” he said quietly, turning from the mosaic. “It is time I made provision for our children. Shortly I will write my will to dispose of my Roman obligations.”

  A will! Dispose of…it sounded so ominous. I hated the finality of a will. Yet only a fool does not have one; if you do not provide one, your enemies will attack your heirs.

  “I hope you plan to deposit it in a safe place!” was all I said. I was convinced Caesar had had a later will than the one left with the Vestal Virgins, but not safeguarded—a curious sloppiness for one of Caesar’s foresight. If he had, then perhaps Octavian would still be studying in Apollonia, a little-known distant relative of Caesar’s, like his other nephews who had vanished into obscurity. But enough of that, I told myself.