The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  He was always theatrical—was this only a performance? Or was he pretending to give a performance to mask his real intentions?

  “Ah—and here is our true host,” he said, greeting someone costumed as Hades, lord of the underworld. His black cloak dragged on the ground, and he had a circlet depicting flickering flames around his head.

  Silently he bowed. Behind his eye-mask I could see dark irises.

  “Are you prepared to welcome such a large company?” Antony asked. “They are here to be initiated.”

  Hades turned his head slowly. “The company may not be as large as you suppose,” he said, with a voice that suggested hollows, wells, caves: hints of ripples, drips, echoes. “Do not be disappointed if they do not all wish to set their feet upon the sill of night.” He gave a smooth, but infinitely unpleasant, little laugh. “It is, after all, still high summer here. But doubtless there will be enough to have made my journey worthwhile.” He bowed supplely and insinuated himself in the crowd, disappearing.

  “Who was that?” I asked. He was too realistic.

  “Isn’t he marvelous?” said Antony. “He’s a well-known actor here in Greek comedies.”

  “Comedies? Clearly he’s missed his calling.”

  Antony steered me past a knot of men and women encircling someone holding forth on the meaning of life.

  “Young, young, he’s very young,” said Antony. “All the young philosophers like to declaim on that topic.”

  Behind me I could hear him droning, “Whether one is or is not, one and the others in relation to themselves and one another, all of them, in every way, are and are not, and appear to be and appear not to be.”

  “Plato,” I said, more to myself than to Antony.

  His brows went up in surprise. “My little Alexandrian,” he said fondly. “Perhaps you’d like to declaim?”

  “No,” I said. “What I have learned in life would not help many others.” There were few general rules to be gleaned from me.

  We strolled about for some time, greeting the guests, listening to their conversations. Remarkably, there was no mention of Octavian or the political situation. Instead the talk was all of fashions, food, entertainments, and excursions.

  Finally Antony strode to the front of the chamber and clapped his hands for attention. “My good friends—going all the way back to that first winter I came to Alexandria—welcome! Ah, what times we had then! Remember the fishing? Remember the visits to Canopus? Remember the banquets, the races? Ten years ago—how can that be? Now it is time to embark on a new adventure together. First I will auction off some items from those former days. You may use the gold I have placed in the bowls for you, to bid on them if you wish.”

  He flicked his hand over toward the objects I had noticed earlier, and a servant held the first one up.

  “What am I bid for this fine mask of comedy, with its mate, tragedy? You might well have need of them in the days to come, when you play a part….

  “What am I bid for this bust of Gaius Octavianus? It lately graced the hall of Marcus Titius. This will help you recognize him….

  “And this! An outstanding specimen of its type, a solid gold chamber pot? Its fame has spread as far as Rome. It has other uses as well…perhaps for flowers?”

  I had never seen such a thing in my life. He must have commissioned it especially for the auction!

  He conducted the rest of the auction briskly, finally saying, “And thus do I bid my former life farewell.”

  He motioned to the harpists, and they plucked the strings of their instruments.

  “Listen!” said Antony, as a slender singer appeared beside them. “Heed the words.”

  She sang in a hushed, sweet voice that caused the company to cease talking and strain to hear. “Follow thy heart’s desire while still thou remainest in life! Pour perfume on thy head; let thy garment be of finest linen, anointed with the true most wondrous substances.”

  She moved her graceful hand, barely lifting a fold of her sheer linen gown. I could see all the fingers through it.

  “Do that which is pleasing to thee more than thou didst aforetime; let not thy heart be weary. Follow thy heart’s desire and that which is well pleasing in thine eyes. Arrange thine affairs on earth after the will of thy heart.”

  Now her voice was plain to hear in the quiet of the chamber.

  “Weeping obtains not the heart of a man who dwelleth in the grave. On! live out a joyful day; rest not therein. Lo! it hath not been granted to man to take away with him his belongings. Lo! there is none who hath gone hence and returned hither.” Those words…I had heard them in Rome, long ago….

  “Thank you,” said Antony. He turned to the company. “Friends, long ago we had a brotherhood, a society, we called it Amimetobioi, the Incomparable Livers. Now I propose we form another, suitable for today, and call it Synapothanoumenoi, We Who Will Die Together. Yes. Let those who will join hands with us, and we will seal the pact by dancing once around the chamber to the sound of the harp. A dance of death. And Hades will lead us.”

  The actor appeared at Antony’s side, and extended his gloved hand. He spoke no word.

  The stunned guests just stared at him, and then, to my astonishment, the first man stepped forward and took my hand. Another followed him, until almost everyone had joined hands and formed a chain stretching around all the walls.

  “Now!” Antony signaled to the harpists, who began playing softly, and the line of dancers moved slowly around the room, crossing their steps, bowing their heads. The flowers on their heads trembled with the motion. The high solemnity made a funeral procession.

  Then one of the women took off her bracelets and held them up to make a rattle, and the jangle livened the parade; others turned their jewelry into cymbals, clappers, and bells. The pace speeded up, until we were running, our feet thumping the marble floor, making it resound. The cortege had turned raucous. Life burst defiantly through the mourning.

  “Wine, wine!” yelled one man, holding out his hand for a quick servant to press a cup in it.

  “More here!” yelled another, and finally the line fell apart, as panting people grabbed cups of wine.

  “And now the food!” cried Antony, and at his word a team of slaves dashed in from all the entrances, bearing couches and tables. Superbly well rehearsed, they managed to set up a dining room for over a hundred people in an instant.

  People dived and flopped onto the couches, squealing with glee. Before they were served, Antony spoke again.

  “Feast well! The best of Alexandria is here for your pleasure. Eat, drink, play, come hither!” He paused. “For as long as we still have, we will gather to do thus. And let us not grieve at what is to come, but remember the epitaph of an Epicurean: ‘I was not, I was, I am not, I do not care.’ Thus are summarized all the states a soul passes through on its way to eternity.”

  After he took his place near me, I leaned over and said, “That is too cynical.”

  He was chewing vigorously on a fig. “Why, do you think otherwise?”

  “Yes,” I said. “What you quoted was ignoble. It sounds like a beast of the field.”

  He made a wry face. “I envy them.”

  “No, you don’t. They have no memories.” I motioned to one of the servers to find my agate cup and bring it to me. When it arrived, I turned it around in my hands. “I am not ready to auction this off. It belonged to my father. Yet it seems fitting to drink from it tonight.” He had met many crises with courage.

  “Sir, how do you like this maxim?” a youth on Antony’s other side was saying. “ ‘Why dost thou not retire like a guest sated with the banquet of life, and with calm mind embrace, thou fool, a rest that knows no care?’ Is that what our club is about?”

  Antony clapped his shoulder. “Yes, my lad, yes.”

  He was clearly enjoying his game—who was I to spoil it? It was better than the hermitage. But that it was merely a game I had no doubt; it did not reveal anything of his true state of mind. He was theatrical to
the marrow of his bones, always taking refuge behind costumes. He might have auctioned off the masks of tragedy and comedy tonight, but he had others waiting in reserve.

  From every couch, so it seemed, people were declaiming their philosophies, seeing who had the greatest command of quotes. It was all very clever, like anything Alexandrian. I sipped my wine from the agate cup and said little. The delicacies of orchard, sea, and field passed my palate unnoticed.

  Hades ate heartily; he was quite robust for a shade.

  Late that night, preparing for bed, I heaped my jewelry in a pile by my forest of perfume bottles. Iras could put it away in the morning. I pulled off the wilted crown of flowers and placed it alongside.

  “You outdid yourself,” I finally said to Antony. “I must say, I could never have predicted any of it.” Because it was so bizarre, I added to myself. I hoped people did not think he was deranged, but then, they had joined in with gusto. Perhaps they were all deranged. It was said that in the last days, people in a group could behave very strangely.

  But I did not feel a part of that confusion and despair. That my life might end, and be ended by me, I accepted. But it was a political fact, not a philosophical one. I would not glorify a political necessity by trapping it in all sorts of nonsense.

  I had no innate wish to die, I was not eager to die; I would far prefer to live, unless it was incompatible with honor—mine or my country’s. Death, like life, should serve a purpose.

  “What are you thinking?” Antony asked quietly. He was already lying down, his arms behind his head. “I wish to know your thoughts.”

  I was thinking I am not in love with death, as you are. I looked down at him. He looked oddly happy, as if he had crossed some barrier tonight.

  “I was thinking…I was trying to remember an old Egyptian poem. All that quoting tonight put me to shame.” It was looking down at him that had brought it to mind. I sat down beside him. “It went: ‘The voice of the dove is calling; it sayeth: “The earth is bright, where is my way?” Thou bird, thou art calling to me.’ ”

  He looked puzzled. I had to think hard to recall the lost words, once known so well, of the rest of it.

  “Then…it went…let’s see…” I willed the words to return, and they obeyed. “ ‘But I, I found my beloved on his couch. My heart is rejoiced above all measure, and each of us sayeth: “I will not part from thee.” ’ ”

  I felt for his hand and found it. “ ‘ “My hand is in thy hand. I walk and am with thee in each beautiful place, thou madest me the first of the fair maidens, thou hast not grieved my heart.” ’ ”

  It was true. I leaned over and kissed him.

  “That is not in the mood of the evening,” he said quietly.

  “No,” I admitted. “We are still too much alive to embrace that mood.”

  He sighed. “You are banishing it, I fear.” He reached his arms up to embrace me. “Do you really feel that way about me?”

  “Yes,” I said. “From the very beginning until this moment.”

  “Moments,” he mused. “I wonder how many of them we have left?”

  “You should stop this now,” I said briskly. “It’s tiresome with the guests gone.”

  He rolled over, with me in his arms. “You are so determinedly down-to-earth,” he teased.

  “And you should know,” I told him, before enjoying some earthly pleasures, “that I know the name of the new society is stolen from the title of an obscure Greek comedy. It isn’t original. Shame on you.”

  He groaned. “Oh, I should never try to put anything over on an Alexandrian. I hope no one else knew!”

  “They probably did,” I said. “After all, they are Alexandrians, too.”

  When I awoke in the early dawn, it was utterly still in the chamber. No wind stirred the hangings; Kasu the monkey—quite elderly now—slept peacefully in her basket under a table. Antony was deeply asleep on his back, the rise and fall of his chest pulling soundlessly on the linens. He sighed and turned onto his side. In the growing light I could see his eyes moving under the lids; he must be having a dream in which people were running. He had dark, thick eyelashes that locked together when his eyes closed, and I used to tease him and call them “camel’s lashes,” because camels have surprisingly long lashes to keep the sand out of their eyes. I had said only camels and dancing girls were supposed to have such lashes, not Roman generals. Behind my teasing lay the fact that I envied them. I was pleased that the twins had inherited them.

  My mind was fully awake now, but I did not wish to arise yet. I would lie pretending to be asleep; sometimes I thought best that way, with just a touch of dream still clinging to me. The warmth of the body close beside me cosseted me, making me feel safe. Safe forever and ever. But not so….

  Octavian was coming closer. What if I managed to see him in person? A face-to-face interview could accomplish much that formal letters did not. I seldom failed in a direct meeting; it was my greatest strength. If I saw him, looked him in the eye…

  I turned over, suppressing a slight shudder. Those eyes…what had Olympos called them? Clear, grayish blue, utterly emotionless…a flatness with life yet behind it. I remembered those eyes. I did not really care to look into them. But if I could…perhaps…

  Antony twitched and jerked, starting to wake up. He would never want me to do it; he would object. But months ago I had decided to do anything. There was no line I would not cross, unlike the proud and noble Antony. In that way Octavian and I were alike. Years ago I had said, May the best man win, between the two of us. The contest was not over yet. An interview with him, alone, could work in my favor.

  Antony’s arms tightened around me. If he had known my thoughts, he probably would have recoiled rather than embracing me. He started rubbing his head against mine affectionately.

  At the movement, the monkey made her arthritic way across the floor and jumped stiffly up onto the bed to join us.

  Antyllus stood before us, seeming taller since he had qualified for the toga virilis. He was wearing it now, its natural white as pure as the marble of the Lighthouse.

  “You will greet your cousin respectfully,” Antony was instructing him. “After all, you have grown up in his sister’s home, and known him all your life. You were once betrothed to his daughter.”

  “I didn’t know him well,” he protested.

  “No one knows Octavian well,” said Antony, “probably not even his own daughter. That does not matter. I am sending you as my emissary to salute him and present these gifts of gold to him. Give him the letter in which I remind him of our years of friendship, of joint rulership, of ties of kinship. I ask him to let me retire into private life and live in Athens. After all, Lepidus did so. If he refuses, give him this personal letter.”

  “Is it wise for him to go all the way to Ptolemais Ace?” I asked. I did not like sending Antyllus directly into the enemy camp. Had Antony never considered that Octavian might take him as a hostage? It seemed rash to me.

  “He’ll do well enough,” said Antony. “It is only three hundred miles by sea.”

  “Don’t remind me how close Octavian is!” Luckily he would have to march by land, much farther, and through the Sinai, too. “And that’s not what I meant. I meant, why put your son in his hands?”

  “I have to send the highest-ranking emissary I can, and that is my eldest son and heir. Octavian will not respond to anything less.”

  “He may respond in a way you won’t like,” I said. “I think it’s a dangerous risk.”

  Antony sighed. “We must hope for the best. Now, Antyllus, no one must see the contents of the second letter but Octavian, in privacy. Make sure of it.”

  “What’s in it?” I was suddenly suspicious.

  “I said no one but Octavian,” Antony said firmly. “Not even you.” He put his hands on his son’s shoulders. “I have the utmost confidence in you,” he said. “I will be awaiting the answer you bring back.”

  The boy—young man now—squared his shoulders, proud of his
mission. “Yes, Father. I am honored to do it.”

  While we waited, Antony and his Synapothanoumenoi held many banquets, rotating around to each mansion throughout the city. Each tried to outdo the last in abandoned profligacy, as if determined to waste all earthly possessions in a blaze of glory, like a funeral pyre. I found them boring, not even a good distraction. Why has no one ever written on the fact that impersonal debauches or extravaganzas leave as much space for brooding as does complete privacy? One is equally alone in both.

  Mardian brought the two muscular men in tattered clothes before us.

  “Here are those you seek,” he told them. To us he said, “Your champions are here.”

  They were utterly unfamiliar. “Good sirs, who are you?” I had to ask.

  “We are gladiators from the school at Cyzicus—trained to fight in your victory games. Which still might be held someday, the gods willing! We have not gone over to him.” The man who was speaking was stout and had a shaved head. I wondered what his weapons of choice were. Thracian? Samnite? He would not do well with the net; his arms were too short.

  “But we were halted by King Herod once we reached Judaea. The rest of our party is detained there; we escaped to come to you.” His companion had the long legs and dark skin of a Nubian. Good gladiators came from all over the world.

  “And you are all that got away?” asked Antony.

  “Yes, lord. I am afraid so.”

  “You and your company have proved more loyal than all the client kings with their effusive vows of allegiance,” said Antony. Was his voice trembling, just a little? “For that I am deeply grateful. You are the heroes among heroes.” He turned to Mardian. “Give them the gold of their deserving, and let them be housed in the palace.”

  “You will have to be retrained,” I told them. “The games we normally have here are Greek. No killing. Still, I imagine you can adapt.”

  They bowed in a most professional manner.