The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  “Yes, it will be delivered into the safekeeping of the Vestal Virgins in Rome,” he said. “There it will remain inviolate until my death. But its contents will not be a secret from you. You shall be present when I dictate it, and Plancus and Titius will serve as witnesses. But we will discuss that later. It chiefly concerns my Roman family. But what of ours? What is their future?”

  This was a strange conversation. The only child whose future was a mystery was Caesarion, because of his unique position. “You have already settled Alexander’s,” I said. “He will marry the Median princess and inherit Media. As for Selene, she will marry—someone. The baby, Philadelphos—or the Hedgehog, as you insist on calling him—the throne of Egypt will likely fall to him, as the one Ptolemy remaining behind.”

  He stood before me and put his hands on my shoulders. “Such limited dreams, for such an imperial mother,” he said. “You continue to surprise me.”

  “They will all have a kingdom. They will all thrive. The brother-and-sister killings that have stained the name of Ptolemy—not to mention hands and daggers—will cease with this generation. What greater achievement could a mother—a Ptolemaic mother, that is—claim?”

  He was looking at me with a depth of surprised approval I had never seen in his eyes before. “And you are thought to be wildly, greedily ambitious,” he finally said.

  “Because of my goal of reclaiming my ancestral lands? I would call that limited—downright Apollo-like—wishing to regain only lost territory. My house had fallen on such hard times that we had to buy back our throne, and borrow the money to do it! To reverse all that seemed a hard enough task to set myself.”

  “Yet now you have achieved it,” he said. “And because success is rewarded by unsought further success, I will tell you: your dreams are too small.”

  I laughed, and turned away. No one had ever accused me of that before!

  “All the east lies in my hand. I am its ultimate master, both by appointment from Rome as Triumvir and by right of arms as Imperator. I can bestow it where and how I will.” How matter-of-factly he said it. “I think ‘Queen of Egypt’ is too small for you. I think you should be Queen of Kings and of Her Sons Who are Kings. And I think your sons should be kings. Alexander Helios will rule over parts of Armenia, Media, and Parthia, as befits the heir of Alexander himself. Cleopatra Selene, a queen, will be granted Cyrenaica and Crete. Why rely on a husband to grant her a kingdom? And little Hedgehog, Philadelphos—why, he shall also be a king, and rule northern Syria and Cilicia.”

  “You are announcing a dynasty,” I said. “A Roman magistrate, you are founding a royal eastern dynasty.” This was odd, unbelievable. What was he thinking?

  “No, I am not founding it. The house of Ptolemy has existed for three hundred years! I am merely…expanding its scope.”

  “And its claims and ambitions,” I said. “You are giving them Roman territory, as well as territory not under your control. Like Parthia!” I could not resist this.

  His plan was impulsive, daring. Was that what he meant by Dionysian inspiration? It was not rational; Apollo had certainly not given rise to it.

  “I am giving them an idea to pursue,” he said. “Should I not manage to take Parthia, it will be left for them to do.” He paused. “But I plan to. Next year, now that Armenia and Media are secure. I am proud of having won a new Roman province!”

  “Have you?” He had never stated this decision about the status of his conquest.

  “Yes. Armenia will be converted directly into a province. I have garrisoned it securely this time, under Canidius. I will present this plan to Rome, to be read out and confirmed in the Senate, at the same time as my territorial assignments to you and the children. They will take them all together!” He laughed. “Not that there is any question about it. All my acts here in the east have been approved in advance. It is courtesy only.”

  “Are the children not too young for this?” It seemed premature.

  “The earlier someone knows his destiny, the better he can follow it. It will forestall all the plots and machinations, and foster peace.”

  It seemed a pronouncement of great and unknown consequence. But I have learned that things are seldom offered twice; we have to grasp them when they pass, even if the timing feels wrong. “Very well,” I said. “I am stunned by your elevation of these children to such high positions. After all, you have others….”

  “Antyllus, as my eldest son, will be my Roman heir. His brother Iullus—oh, those are all Roman details, of no concern to you now. But my eldest daughter, Antonia, will soon be in our sphere of the world. I am marrying her to Pythodorus of Tralles. He’s as wealthy as a king, and widely respected throughout the east.”

  “A Greek from Asia! What will they say in Rome? They won’t consider her legally married.” No Roman would recognize it.

  “What they will say is, he must believe in his own foreign marriage, if he allows it for his daughter as well. As you know, we often do things ourselves that we would not approve or wish for our dear ones. I can send no stronger message to Rome. Besides,” he said, grinning, “she will have so much money I don’t think she’ll feel uncompensated!”

  So now I sat, awaiting the public pronouncement of the honors we had discussed so lightly in our private chambers. There was another matter, which was not so lightly spoken of or decided, but—of that, later.

  As I said, I was dressed as Isis again, and again sat on a golden throne. The silver platform had been erected in front of the Gymnasion, so that spectators could fill the steps along the six-hundred-foot-long side of the building, shaded by the roofed columns. But it was a larger platform than the Triumph’s, and it was constructed with different levels. Antony and I were on the topmost. Just a little lower sat Caesarion, on his own throne. Below him were another three thrones, for the younger children. They were sitting, costumed, staring out at the crowd.

  Antony, stately in his Roman toga, rose and addressed the people in his official capacity as Triumvir. He had put aside his other roles, the general, the Autocrator, the New Dionysus, the eastern ruler. He, like me, played many parts. Today he was the civilian Roman magistrate, appointed to govern Rome’s vast territories in the east as its overlord.

  “My good people, I stand here before you to make you witnesses of the gifts I bestow today upon the faithful House of Ptolemy—loyal supporters of Rome. And also to honor the great god, Julius Caesar. For your Queen, who has long reigned over you, let her be known henceforth as Queen of Kings, and of Her Sons Who are Kings.” He turned and took my hand, drawing me up to stand beside him. The glare of the sun’s reflection off the silver platform dazzled me, making it hard to see.

  “And I further declare,” he said, so loudly that even the farthest bystander could not fail to hear the words, “that she is the widow of Julius Caesar, having been his true and legal wife by contracting a marriage after the eastern rite.” A hush fell on the crowd, as severe as if a giant hand had pushed itself down on their heads. I felt his hand tremble. He had not spoken of this to me, had not warned me. Perhaps he had wanted to ensure my blank stare.

  “And I hereby swear that their son, Ptolemy Caesar, seated here, is the true and legitimate son of the great Caesar, and his only heir.”

  I had not thought it possible that the silence could deepen, but it did. Antony’s hand was grasping mine so hard it began to ache. At the same time it grew slippery with sweat.

  “Stand, young Caesar,” commanded Antony. “Stand, and let your people see you and acknowledge you.”

  Slowly Caesarion stood up. He had grown tall; he was over thirteen now, and his head was almost level with Antony’s. Antony had insisted he wear his best Roman attire today, without saying why.

  Shyly he smiled at the people, and made a gesture to them. They cheered warmly.

  “As son of Caesar, he is due honors from Rome. But as a Ptolemy and eldest son of Queen Cleopatra, he rules as co-ruler of the land of Egypt and Cyprus and reigns as King of Kings, and over
lord of the other territories to be henceforth bestowed.”

  Again that hush. King of Kings was an ancient, honorific eastern title, borne by the Persians. So Caesarion was to be both eastern and western ruler; he was to bind the two worlds together after Antony and I had left the stage of life.

  “Next,” he said, “I declare that Alexander Helios is King of Armenia, overlord of Media and of all territory east of the Euphrates as far as India.”

  King of Armenia? How could there be a king of a Roman province? Antony had not explained this. Was it only a portion of Armenia? But now was not the time to ask.

  “Rise, King Alexander,” said Antony.

  The boy rose, wearing the costume carefully crafted for him: that of a Persian king. There was a high royal tiara—the Persian crown—swathed in a white turban, decorated with a peacock feather. He wore baggy trousers and a jeweled cloak, which glittered in the sun, intensified by the beaten silver of the platform, acting as a gigantic mirror.

  Now the Armenian bodyguards, also costumed, stepped up to make a frame around him. The crowd cheered.

  “And Queen Cleopatra Selene,” said Antony, stepping over to where our daughter sat on her little throne, waiting. “You rule Cyrenaica and Crete. Rise, please.” She stood solemnly, her silver gown hanging to the floor, making her one with it, a slender silver flower growing out of the silver ground. Her bodyguard, dressed in Grecian soldiers’ attire, carried silver shields.

  “And King Ptolemy Philadelphos.” Antony made his way to the tiny throne of the two-year-old boy, who sat looking apprehensive. He had never seen so many people, or been made to sit by himself for so long. “You are to rule the middle Syrian territories, and Cilicia, and be overlord of Pontus, Galatia, and Cappadocia, westward from the Euphrates as far as the Hellespont.” Antony bent down and took his chubby hand. “Rise.” He gently pulled the child up, so that everyone could see—as he stood there on wobbly feet—that he wore a royal Macedonian costume of purple cloak, diademed hat, and Macedonian high boots. To complete the picture, he had a Macedonian bodyguard to serve him.

  “Now, all good citizens of Alexandria, Rome, and Egypt—let us rejoice in this happy day! I have issued today a new coin marking the occasion. It honors Queen Cleopatra, with the legend ‘Queen of Kings and of Her Sons Who are Kings,’ and me, with the legend ‘Armenia Conquered.’ May it serve to remind us of those achievements when we behold it with our eyes, and may it serve to enrich us when it is in our purses!” With that, he hurled a handful of the shiny silver denarii out into the crowd, who roared and scrambled for them.

  When he saw how that at last released the crowd—which had been subdued and confused—he quickly motioned for more bags of money to be opened and thrown to the people. Now the shouts and cheering rose.

  “Always money,” he said, as he returned to my side, standing straight. “I think it is the great joy-giver, more than wine.”

  “Everyone loves money, while not everyone cares for wine,” I said. I was as confused as the rest of the crowd. It was all I could think of to say.

  There was, of course, a banquet and celebration in the palace immediately following. While the rest of the populace dispersed, those of our party were to be entertained extravagantly—as befitted a family of kings, kings of kings, queens, and…what was Antony? Obviously, if he had the power to create and appoint kings of kings, he must be above them, but…It was all very ill-defined. Did “Autocrator” adequately describe this overarching authority?

  In the huge hall, its red porphyry pillars twined with garlands, a light sprinkling of rose petals underfoot, long swaths of blue silk were strung between columns. They billowed and fluttered in the wind rising from the harbor below, the scent of crushed rose petals perfuming the air. I put my arms proudly around the shoulders of Selene and Alexander.

  “You looked impressive today,” I told them. I wondered how it felt to be proclaimed special so early, to have your kingdom handed to you? I hoped it would not stifle them, make it so easy that in later life they could not face difficulties. The ceremonial bodyguards were still surrounding them, and I gave them a look. Time to melt away; the play was over.

  “I suppose I’ll like Cyrene,” said Selene. “Because it’s right next to Egypt. And I can stay there, and let the men come to me—as you did.”

  I laughed. Selene seemed at times very grown up; she saw things clearly.

  “Yes, it’s convenient to have a kingdom of your own,” I said.

  The silver dress became her, but Alexander was about to trip over his baggy Persian trousers. He slid about awkwardly.

  Antony was carrying Philadelphos, letting the child peer over his shoulder. The cap and diadem were too big, and kept falling over one eye. Antony was turning around and around, and Philadelphos was squealing with delight. Antony’s cloak flapped and flew out. Suddenly he grasped its fastening, unhooked it, and threw it out over the crowd. It flew a little way, like a purple bat.

  Plancus caught it, and came over to me, clutching it like a holy relic. “Although I would keep this myself—to treasure it as belonging to the Imperator on this glorious day—yet I must return it. I am no thief!” His broad, tanned face radiated sincerity.

  “No, keep it,” I said. “He who discards something valuable cannot expect to recover it. It must go where it was thrown. In this case, how fortunate that it fell into friendly hands!”

  He looked as though I had bestowed a kingdom on him. It struck me as odd even then.

  Marcus Titius and Domitius Ahenobarbus, who had traveled here for the ceremony, joined us. Plancus was holding up the cloak like a trophy, and they purported to feel slighted.

  “This is a day for prizes for everyone,” I said. “I cannot give you kingdoms, but what of a city? Would you like a city named for you?”

  They looked taken aback, Ahenobarbus especially. As an old-style Republican, it was far from proper for him. But I could see that the flattery of it appealed even to him. Titius, of course, was always ready to help himself to honors.

  “I shall rename two cities in Cilicia, calling them Titiopolis and Domitiopolis,” I said.

  They both gave up trying to suppress grins.

  “Your Majesty,” said Titius, “what can I say—besides offering my undying gratitude?” His handsome lean face grew even handsomer. He bent and kissed my hand, letting his warm lips linger there a little overlong.

  “Madam”—a ticklish matter of names; Republican Ahenobarbus never called me by my royal title—“you are most generous.” He bowed stiffly.

  The wine was flowing; I had ordered dozens of amphorae of the best Chian to be poured unstintingly. As for the banquet itself, it was worthy of the imagination of Octavian and his loyal, bought poets. Every delicacy from land, air, and sea was presented. There were sea creatures, shellfish, boar, beef, even hippopotamus and crocodile; crane, quail, thrush, peacock, flamingo; sweet melons, cucumbers, grapes, figs, dates; honey cakes, custard, and juices of pomegranate, mulberries, and cherries cooled with Thracian snow. I was most proud of the last; it was not easy to have a mound of snow preserved hundreds of miles from its home, and in hot Egypt.

  At the presentation of each new course, the murmurs of approval rose, until they reached a continual high hum, penetrated now and then by the sound of the lyres, lutes, and flutes from the musicians in the back of the hall. The cooled juices, carried in on platters and embedded in the snow, elicited an uproar.

  Caesarion was lounging next to the Roman generals on their dining couches; the children—the Kings and Queen—nearby. How well Caesarion seemed to fit in with them! How poised he was. How…Roman. I watched the faces of the generals and caught them scrutinizing him when they thought they were unobserved.

  “Entertainment! Entertainment!” Some of the more inebriated guests began demanding the next stage. I had planned for dancers, as well as acrobats and something seldom seen—trained monkeys to perform on the pillars. The dancers, lithe young women who moved with skill and grace, we
re too tame for them today. The acrobats were boring to this sophisticated—and drunken—audience. The monkeys amused them briefly, but their loud yelling frightened the creatures off. I had only one more thing in reserve: a troupe of Dionysian actors who were to enact a drama about Pluto and Persephone. People always liked that, because it had entertaining elements like Hades (with smoke and fire), Cerberus (with his three heads; it was always impressive if they could each emit a bark), the boatman of the Styx, and of course the violence of Persephone’s abduction. There could also be decorations like flowers, chariots, falling leaves, and so on.

  If this failed to amuse or quiet them…

  For a few minutes all went well, but then the noise and stirring started again. Suddenly, Plancus lurched to his feet and ran out of the hall. He must have eaten so much he was sick. Romans did that, much to the disdain of Greeks and more sophisticated peoples.

  Then he reappeared—naked and painted blue. Wearing a crown of reeds, he brandished a trident and wove his way over to the astonished actors. “Glaucus, the man of the sea, is here!” he yelled. He got down on his hands and knees and I saw, with astonishment, that he had fastened a fishtail on himself, and now he proceeded to wiggle it at the audience.

  Utter silence reigned; then the company and guests burst into laughter. This was evidently their idea of high humor. I looked at Antony, who was also roaring with laughter, and of course the children found it just to their level of taste. But that a Roman general, the governor of a province, should behave so…

  I would never understand Romans. Antony was right.

  I looked at Plancus with distaste. And this was what thought itself fit to rule the world!

  Late that night, the guests gone, the rose petals mangled, the silk banners tattered and torn from the antics of the frightened monkeys, Antony and I stood in the echoing empty hall. The children had long since been sent to bed, even Caesarion, and we stood surveying the mess, our arms around each other.