The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  HERE ENDS THE NINTH SCROLL.

  The Tenth Scroll

  84

  The sea was still. The whole world was holding its breath. Through the streets, deserted at high noon, the wind had failed, leaving the walls of the buildings to radiate blinding light and heat. From my high vantage point on the palace walls, I could see nothing stirring in my whole city. And the doors shall be shut in the streets….

  I leaned over the ramparts of the tower on the side that faced the harbor; below were the broad marble steps descending into the water, visible as wavering lines below the surface. This was where servants gathered, where children splashed and played, where the little trireme was tied up. But today no one but soldiers were there, deployed around the grounds: my Macedonian Guard, the last bastion an invader would have to dispatch before storming the palace itself.

  The stone under my arm was sizzling hot, almost hot enough to burn my flesh. The last day of the month of Julius; already we were in the Egyptian month of Mesore. And still no Octavian.

  I pulled back from the edge of the wall, its dazzling light making my eyes ache. Against the whiteness the sea’s blue was pure as the soul of an unborn child. Out past the Lighthouse, beyond the breakwaters, the blue was unbroken. No ships on the horizon—yet.

  My own fleet was drawn up in the harbor, waiting. As at Actium. There were some hundred battleships, both Egyptian and Roman.

  The messages from Octavian had ceased. I had never made use of the sphinx seal, for I had nothing to say to him beyond what had already been said. Evidently he was prepared to call my bluff—if he judged it to be so—and proceed to Alexandria and take his chances on seizing the treasure before I could destroy it.

  The intensity of the light and the radiation of the heat made me dizzy. But I forced myself to stay where I was.

  It will be dark and quiet enough in the mausoleum, I reminded myself. Get your fill of the sun now.

  We had had reports of his progress, of course. Lookouts had galloped to us, reporting, Now he’s at Daphnae…now crossing the Necho canal from the Bitter Lakes…now at Pithom…now at Heliopolis….

  Heliopolis. Once he passed that, and crossed over the Nile proper, then little distance was left between us.

  He had seven legions, and Agrippa was not with him. He marched without his right arm, coming to believe in his own superior luck. In a hideous reversal, he marched along the same route Caesar had taken to defend me and save Alexandria. Caesar had proceeded stealthily and caught the enemy off guard, but we were only too well apprised of Octavian’s whereabouts.

  Then, four days ago, he was sighted at Terenuthis, on the Canopic branch of the Nile, and yesterday at Canopus itself, fifteen miles away.

  It had been a fast march. Would he rest his troops before the final push? They would be tired from the unbroken exertion from Raphia onward. And he surely knew that the struggle for Alexandria would be fierce.

  We had four Roman legions, with enough Egyptian troops to constitute a fifth, as well as a respectable arm of cavalry. Antony had stationed the Egyptians at strategic places in the city and drawn up the Romans just outside the Gate of the Sun on the east, ready to face Octavian.

  Now, at such a late hour, Antony’s fighting spirit had returned, as if Mars had been slumbering and belatedly awakened to anoint him with war blood. He had been exercising the troops and readying them ever since Octavian had taken Pelusium.

  Something on the horizon…ships? I shielded my eyes and looked as hard as I could, but it faded. Perhaps it was only a gull, seen out of the corner of my vision. Toward the other direction, the east, I could not see over the walls of the city from where I stood.

  All was in readiness. The children were practiced in what to do, places of refuge for them waited in the depths of the palace, Mardian and Olympos and Charmian and Iras had their final instructions. I had, in my thorough way, tried to provide for everything, down to the last detail. Especially the last detail.

  But I believed we still had a reasonable chance, not only of survival but even of victory. Octavian would be fighting with severe disadvantages—tired, unpaid soldiers on unfamiliar ground, with himself as their commander. He was no match for Antony at his best, or for our rested troops fighting for their home city.

  I had been holding a bouquet of summer flowers, and they were wilting in the glare. So I pulled the flowers out one by one and dropped them down into the waiting water, seeing them fall through the air and land lightly. Little spots of color floated bravely, making a mosaic of sorts.

  Footsteps—heavy ones. Antony bounded around the corner, having taken the steps two at a time in spite of his heavy armor and sword.

  “He’s here!” he said. “Just sighted, down the road to Canopus. He’s rushing, pushing the men at double march. He must mean to get here and pitch camp before sundown.”

  The plumes on his helmet swayed, and its beak prevented me from seeing his eyes. But his voice sounded young, eager.

  “I see nothing,” I said.

  “The dust cloud should be visible soon,” he said. “He is kicking up quite a storm. The cavalry is leading by a mile or so; he’s using them as scouts. We’ll attack them before they can find a resting place.”

  “What, now?” It could not be now; it was already afternoon and…I had had it so firmly in my mind that the confrontation would be a massive battle.

  “Catch him by surprise,” said Antony. “Destroy his advance guard.” He patted his sword. “Ah, to do a man’s work again!” He caressed it like a neglected pet.

  “What shall we do here?” I asked. I would have to ready the mausoleum, gather the children…. O gods! Was it all to be set in motion now—now, on this cloudless, still day? Deeds set in motion, to slide along of their own accord, unstoppable like the tomb doors on their tracks?

  “Pray to all the gods for our success,” he said, taking both my hands in his and enclosing them. “They will hear you.”

  I looked at his sunburnt face, his eyes still invisible under the helmet’s shadow. “Kiss me,” I suddenly said. It seemed very bad luck for him to venture forth without it.

  Quickly he bent and kissed me, his mind already far away. “Farewell, then,” he said.

  Was this all? I knew it was all it could be, but it seemed a very meager leave-taking. “Farewell,” I echoed, seeing him turn and disappear down the steps, a swirl of cloak.

  I clung to the sharp edge of marble at the rampart, feeling unable to move, to leave, to begin to do what I must. To set things in motion…

  Now I could see the smudge on the horizon. The ships were coming. Octavian’s fleet was on its way, under oars rather than sail.

  So this, my tenth scroll, is to be the last. I have just begun it. And it is fitting. Ten is a number with its own mystique; not as magic, perhaps, as seven or three or twelve, but it will do well enough to contain my life. There are ten fingers, there are ten lunar months in the forming of a child, and ten days in the Egyptian week. Isis at Philae visits Osiris on his island every ten days. And all men revere the number one hundred, which is ten tens.

  Along with everything else, provision is made for thee, scroll, and all thy brothers. I will fill thee up until my hand can write no more. And if it chance that all this is silly and premature, why, then there may be twenty scrolls someday, as my life continues to unfold—not stopped on a hot, still day.

  The hours crept by. The water clock dripped. The shadowlessness of noon gave way to the slanting pools of darkness that grow out of buildings, stones, trees. And I sat, waiting, alternately writing this and gripping the arms of my chair.

  Mardian joined me. It is not true that another person can distract you. Waiting together made it worse. At one point he reached over and took my hand in his. It felt different.

  “Why, Mardian,” I said, “you have taken off your rings.” He was never without them, his emerald and lapis beauties.

  “Perhaps it is my own way of going out to battle,” he said. “Stripping away al
l that which cannot help me now, and I’ll be cursed if I allow it to help another!”

  Mardian had no family, no one to leave it to. And no one to mourn him afterward. I had thought of everything but that, imagining that he would be left behind to oversee things—whatever those things would be. But they would never let him do so, and he would suffer punishment as if he were of my own family.

  “Mardian,” I finally said, “we have talked of many things, and I foolishly gave you instructions to carry out—afterward. I see now how unthinking that was. Not because you are unreliable, but because I provided a refuge for everyone but you. Forget about the instructions and come with me when I give you the signal.”

  “Come—where?”

  “With me, Charmian, and Iras. We are resolved upon our course of action. I need not describe it; I am sure you know it. What is left unsaid cannot be argued against. You are welcome to join our circle. I am afraid it is the only safe, secure refuge I can offer. The only one that is unanswerable to Octavian.”

  “I see.” His voice was sad. Had he expected that I had come up with some other, miraculous solution? Or surely he had not believed that I had just meekly accepted Olympos’s dictates? “It cannot be otherwise.” He nodded gravely.

  “No,” I said. “Olympos does not control all the keys that can unlock the secret house of death. Although he would like to!”

  Olympos they would let alone. He would be free to come and go and carry out my mission. If he liked, he could even go to Rome and observe the Triumph! Yes, he would have entire freedom.

  “Thank you for your invitation,” Mardian said, as if I had invited him to a fine banquet. And, in a way, I had. “If necessary, I will accept. But perhaps it will not be necessary. The city is well prepared, and the troops fairly evenly matched. Lord Antony seemed in his old form, and—”

  “Yes. He has come back to himself.” But even his old self had lost battles.

  Dusk had come, a deep, rich purple one—as intense as the noon it followed. The tender violet seemed to well up from the sea itself and spread out over the city. It was a night the Alexandrians would have reveled in, holding dinners and lectures and debates, all flavored with imported sweet wines and delicacies. But in the lengthening evening there was no stirring in the streets.

  Servants came in to light the lamps—the few servants remaining. I had dismissed the freedmen and sent them home. Now only slaves and very loyal attendants stayed on. Gone were the hordes of attendants who made the palace a colorful, noisy place. The glow of the lit oil made yellow halos in the chamber.

  Then we heard it—a clatter at the gates. We both stood and clasped hands. Whatever it was, the moment had come. I shut my eyes and took deep, long breaths.

  More noise, the sound of horses and armed men. I flew to the window and looked down. The flaring torches in their hands showed the riders to be—Romans. But which Romans? They were laughing and flushed, jumping with energy.

  Then I saw, bareheaded, Eros. He was wheeling his horse in circles, drawing arcs with his torch.

  “Eros!” I cried, and then I saw Antony behind him.

  He looked up, and his face was exultant. Without waiting, I grabbed Mardian’s hand and together we rushed down the steps and out into the courtyard, into the milling horsemen.

  “My Queen!” cried Antony, as we reached him. He leaned over and scooped me up onto the saddle, kissing me all the while. I was suspended in the air while his lips clamped down on mine and barely let me breathe.

  “We’ve done it!” he cried, as he helped me into the saddle in front of him. “We fell on them so quickly they could barely get onto their horses—routed them—killed a hundred or so, and sent the rest scurrying back to Octavian!” He laughed, and kissed me again. “You should have heard them yell! Like scalded cats!”

  Canidius had pulled Mardian up onto his horse, and now we smiled at each other, relief flooding us and making us limp. The death instructions receded, seemed an obscene dream.

  “Come! A feast! A feast!” Antony cried to his men. “Can that be arranged, my love?”

  “The kitchens are as ready as need be,” I assured him. We would manage.

  “And wine, wine, enough to rejoice us but not impair us for the morrow,” he said. “And music—”

  “Yes,” I said. “Tonight, anything.”

  Details followed. Of how they had streamed out the gate, galloped down the road some five miles, past the grove of Nemesis where Pompey’s memorial was, and found the beginnings of a camp being set up. The trenches had been started and the streets outlined, but nothing else. The men were resting with their horses, and scarcely had time to mount after they saw Antony’s forces bearing down on them. They were tired, and had little righting strength to counter the attack. A number were slain outright, and the rest scattered, disappearing in all directions.

  “Some of them even rode out into the sea!” said Antony. “As if they expected Poseidon to rescue them!” His big hands were curled around a gold drinking cup, and he swallowed a draught of wine. “Ah. And here is the bravest soldier of all—my lieutenant Aulus Celsus. He rode right into their midst, wreaking havoc, endangering his own person.”

  I looked up to see a burly young man still wearing his armor—stained leather cuirass and battered helmet tucked under his arm. Antony had swept everyone in for the feast dressed as they were.

  Celsus bowed stiffly. “It was my pleasure and duty.”

  “He is too modest,” said Antony. “The truth is, he was the very hand of Mars. I would be content—no, proud—if any of my sons made such a soldier.”

  “It seems you are in need of better fighting gear,” I said. “We will make your reward useful as well as profitable.” I nodded to one of my attendants. “The gold armor that was old Polemo’s—it shall be yours.” The storehouse of military treasure was not heaped in the mausoleum, as weapons and armor do not pile tightly.

  “Oh no, I could not—” He started to demur, but Antony stopped him.

  “And I say you shall,” he insisted. Then, after Celsus had taken his leave, Antony whispered to me, “That was as profligate as me.”

  I did not care. Riches meant little at the moment; they had become just more items to be disposed of. I shrugged.

  The noise in the room was rising, aided by the wine and the soaring relief. It was almost like days gone by—but the tension was still there. The men were eating heartily and drinking deeply, but not to lose themselves. At length Antony rose from his couch and held up his hands for silence. It fell quickly—too quickly, showing it had been lurking all the while.

  “My friends,” he said, “for your bravery today, I commend you. For our fighting tomorrow, I exhort you to slack not! For tomorrow…tomorrow we shall meet the foe in our full force, and his. Not just a vanguard, but the whole army. All our fortunes ride on this battle.”

  The men all stood attentively, but their faces were blank. I could not guess their feelings.

  “I challenged Octavian to single combat,” he suddenly said. “Yes! I invited him to meet me, man to man, sword in hand.”

  I had not thought it was possible for them to become stiller and more blank-faced, but they did. The roomful of soldiers stared at him, not even moving their eyes.

  “And he refused. But rather than refuse outright, he said flippantly, ‘If he wishes to die, there are many other ways open to him.’ How clever. How cutting. But you see, he was right. I have thought much on it.” He held out his cup for it to be refilled. A servant came forward, and Antony waited for him to finish pouring before he resumed his words. “And I have concluded that tomorrow I shall seek either to live or to die in honor. To defeat the enemy would be honor, and to die in battle would be equal honor. Either way, I conquer.” Now he took a long, deliberate sip of the wine. “So drink with me, and pour the wine freely in my cups, for tomorrow you may serve a new master, and I lie dead.”

  Now at last they stirred, and words poured forth like the wine.

  �
�No, sir, you cannot—”

  “Never, I will die with you—”

  “Why go into battle, then?”

  The page pouring the wine had clasped his arm and begun crying.

  “Nay, stop,” Antony said. “I did not mean to make you weep. Nor do I mean to lead you into a battle where I do not expect victory. I only meant that, should the gods see otherwise, they cannot bereave me of my honor, even though I fall.”

  His words were disheartening them. For a commander to speak so matter-of-factly of his death was hardly inspiring. Some of the younger ones were shiny-eyed, and the more seasoned ones were shifting on their feet.

  “Just fight as you fought today, and tomorrow we will gather in this same hall, to feast and shout until the fretted ceiling overhead shakes as with an earthquake!” I cried. “The wind sits fair for victory!” I stepped forward. “I have spoken to the gods. Isis will not desert, no, she will protect us! And Hercules, your ancestor”—I took Antony’s hand and held it aloft—“will wield the club for us.” I looked around at the men. “Do not your officers wear the ring engraved with the likeness of Hercules?” I knew Antony gave such rings to his men. “He will strengthen your arms!”

  Antony’s staunch followers now crowded around him to assure him of their devotion. The musicians struck up again. The wine flowed. Outside, the streets were still deserted.

  Waiting in the chamber. All dark except for one lamp. Charmian has removed my gown, folding it and storing it as she has a hundred—a thousand—times. My sleeping garments slide over my head, as if I truly plan to sleep. I hold my metal mirror up to my face, and in the dim light I see only wide eyes, devoid now of the kohl lining them, the powdered malachite on the lids. Just ordinary eyes, not even weary or lined. Nothing shows in them, neither joy nor fear. Only a slight curiosity.

  Yes, I am curious. It has been reduced to that, now. The unanswered questions will surely be answered tomorrow.