“They are the marks of grief,” I said. They must be told. Did they know about Antony? I led them over to a wide bench by the window and we sat down. “Your father has died,” I said.
Alexander let out a cry. “Why?” he asked.
“When the city fell—you know we lost the battle….”
“Did he get killed in the fighting?”
How could I explain it so they would understand?
“No, not in the fighting itself, but afterward.”
“But how? How?” He was insistent.
I shook my head. “There was confusion,” I finally said. “He had to do what a brave man must. It would not have been right for him to be taken prisoner. It would have been—dishonorable.”
Selene broke into tears. “Do you mean he killed himself?”
I must tell the truth. “Yes. But he had no choice. It does not mean he wished to leave you.” Rulers are different. We have to do things ordinary people are spared.
“Why didn’t he have a choice?” asked Alexander. “What was so bad about being a prisoner? We are prisoners, aren’t we?”
“Yes, but only for a little while. He would have been a prisoner forever.”
“What about you?” asked Selene. She was looking directly at me. She always asked the most acute questions, as if she saw more than the others. “If he could not bear it, how can you?”
Oh, why must she ask that? Olympos and Caesarion had taught me well that I could not answer honestly. I could not risk it. And it was too hurtful to confess, anyway. I had already prepared my answer. “I am too well guarded to do what Antony did,” I said. “Octavian would prevent it. So you need not worry. I imagine we will all be going to Rome—although separately. Or perhaps you will stay here while I go to Rome. I do not know yet whether it is you or Caesarion who will rule after me. The most sublime Octavian will decide.”
“Octavian!” said Selene. “He has already visited us, and had us to his quarters. Your old rooms! He seemed very interested in us. He asked a lot of questions.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, our favorite foods, how many languages we spoke, our patron gods. You know, polite things.”
Yes. Polite things. “And what did you think of him?” I asked.
“He’s scary!” said Philadelphos. “He just stares, that funny stare, even when he’s acting friendly.”
I laughed. An accurate description.
“You mustn’t be afraid of him,” I said. “Now that he’s got what he wants, he will most likely be pleasant enough. You must pretend to like him, though. He is very sensitive about that.”
“I suppose I should hug him and call him uncle!” said Alexander in a huff. “I don’t want to! He killed my father!” Then, abruptly, “When is Father’s funeral?”
“It already was,” I said. And my heart ached that I did not even have Antony’s sword to give him. Octavian had it. But perhaps it was just as well. What son would cherish the sword that had deprived him of a living father? “And it was not Octavian who killed your father. It was just…the fortunes of a lost war.” And a lost empire, a lost world. The losses were all-encompassing, stretching out into eternity.
“Why wouldn’t they let us see it?” asked Selene.
“Perhaps they felt it would be too painful,” I said. Please don’t let her ask about Antyllus! Don’t ask if he was there!
Mercifully, she asked instead, “Do you think Octavian will make us live in Rome?”
“Not if you are ruling here. But he may take you for a visit. Would that be so bad?”
She shrugged. “I suppose not. But I’d rather go to India.”
Now I was watching them carefully—more closely than Octavian, probably—trying to imprint their images on my heart forever. My three beautiful young children, all I had left of Antony. I tried to disguise it, hoping I was subtler than Octavian. Watching is difficult to hide. And the reason for my looking…that I would never see them again. I had to will my eyes to remain clear, not well up with tears, else they would suspect.
“My loves,” I said, embracing them one by one, “we will endure this, and remember it only as a bad dream, look back on it and smile at our own bravery.”
Letting them go was hard—one of the hardest things I have ever done. Now I had only one more thing to let go. All else was gone.
I wished I had something wise to say to them, some fitting words of parting. But nothing came to me. There were no words grand enough, or kind enough.
They were gone, taken chattering back to their rooms, their guards ever vigilant. Their every movement would be watched. Octavian would keep them tightly in his grasp. As he meant to keep me.
After they were gone, a void opened around me, in spite of the company still in the room. Iras was standing looking out to sea, Charmian tending the clothes, more from habit than from need. Her slender fingers smoothed the silks, folding them so precisely that they could be stacked ten or fifteen high. It was as if she thought I would wear all of them. Her silent, graceful, familiar motions were lulling to watch.
Mardian was reading, something he usually had little time for. Olympos was sitting glumly, his arms crossed. He looked tired and defeated. We were all trapped, only passing time in our cage.
Olympos, my dear, fierce friend, I think—if you should read this, although you respect privacy so much I doubt you will—keeping the secret from you was one of the greatest sorrows of those last days. You gave me no choice (he had no choice; it does not mean he wished to leave you), but it made what was already difficult even more painful. To be unable to say good-bye—that is a special punishment, worse the more we care. So, now I say it, say that goodbye I could not, then. Good-bye, may all the gods keep you. And do not forget, do not forget, all you know.
Outside the day was fresh and bright. I could see the sparkling sea, the waves tossing foam like pretty girls tossing their hair, beckoning to Alexandria, come and sport with me….
Alexandria. It had been spared. It would escape the flames, the looting, the destruction that usually followed in the wake of defeat. My city would live, and my children. I had had all I could ask for.
The wind was singing, a lighthearted song. But inside we were prisoners and could only watch from the windows. It was the half-life of an invalid.
Invalid. Not valid. To render null. To weaken or destroy the force of. To dismiss from duty. To deprive of effective or continued existence. A world of woe in that one word, invalid.
I was now invalid. I could regain validity only through death.
Heads bent over our tasks, we drifted on our thoughts, until a knock on the door stirred us. Dolabella stepped in, smartly dressed like the rising young aristocrat he was. I thought idly what a winsome man he was. He would go far in Rome.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “may I speak to you alone?”
I nodded, and the others rose silently and went into an adjoining room.
“Now,” I said, smiling, “will you take some refreshments?” Octavian had left us so well provided for that I could almost entertain a cohort.
He just shook his head, glumly.
“Why, Dolabella,” I said. “What is it?” His manner was alarming.
He came across the floor in jerky steps and then fell to one knee before me. He took one of my hands and looked at me imploringly. “Madam, dearest Queen, I hope you will believe me when I tell you that in the few days I have served as your guard, I have developed…a great respect and sympathy for you.”
What was this about? “What are you trying to tell me?” I asked. I had a great dread of knowing. He had such a look of anguish that I knew it was something serious—and that he spoke the truth.
He said in a low voice, “I have just overheard the Imperator settling his plans. In three days he will leave Alexandria and return to Rome by way of Syria.”
“And—what of us? What of us, here?”
Now his voice sank even lower. He did not want anyone to report that he had told me. “You
are to be put on board ship and transferred to Rome.”
So soon! Three days!
“And once I am there…what will he do with me?”
Dolabella looked away, and took a deep breath as if steeling himself.
“He’ll lead me in his Triumph,” I finished for him. “Do not be afraid to speak it, for I have always known it. Are you certain?”
“Entirely. He was planning the festivities. There will be three Triumphs, one for Illyria, one for Actium, and the last for Egypt. You are to be its chief ornament.”
“Why, I can do double duty, appearing in two! For, after all, since he claims these were not civil wars, it follows that Roman did not fight Roman at Actium, but fought only Egyptians.” It was a bitter joke.
“It is possible you would appear in both,” he agreed, miserably.
“I thank you for warning me,” I said.
Three days!
“I am grieved to have to do so, but it seemed crueler for you not to know.”
“Yes. I am grateful that you understood that.”
Three days!
“If there is anything—”
“Yes. Yes, there is,” I said. “Let me write this request to Octavian, and you can take it to him. Please do your best to persuade him to allow it. It would mean so much to me, especially in the circumstances.”
With an odd calmness, I went to my writing desk, pulled out paper, sought the words for the simple request. I had so little time. The guards must be misled like Octavian, made to relax their grip on me, grow careless.
Hail, great Imperator Caesar, I beg your divine mercy in allowing me to pour offerings and libations on the tomb of my husband, and to observe the ancient custom of Egypt in serving a funerary feast there. Without it, his spirit cannot rest.
I handed the note to Dolabella, who read it carefully. He nodded. “I shall do all that I can, my lady.”
“It is important to me. I cannot leave without it. Surely he will not be so hard-hearted as to deny me. The soldiers can guard me all the while.”
But not in the mausoleum. They would avoid going in there, contenting themselves with watching the doors and inspecting the food going in. They would not suspect the danger already inside, waiting.
Let the basket still be there, in the shadows where it had been hidden!
“I will do my best,” he said. “This is a mournful task.”
“Do not grieve yourself over it. It is I who have brought myself to this. It is not your doing. Your kindness only makes it easier to bear.” I reached out and touched his arm. “Now go. Do what I ask.”
He nodded, then turned quickly and left.
So little time. I called my friends—for so they were, rather than mere attendants—back into the room. There could be no hiding what was to come—except from Olympos. I would have to manage him cleverly. (Forgive me, friend!)
“What was it?” asked Mardian, his normally pleasing voice agitated. Behind him came the others.
“Dolabella has been kind enough to inform me that Octavian is shipping me back to Rome for his Triumph.”
Do not let them start wailing and protesting! I begged the gods. And my prayer was granted. My companions, levelheaded and strong, just nodded.
“We will make you ready,” said Charmian, and we all knew what she meant—all but Olympos.
“Octavian is going by land, as he does not like the sea,” I said. But I did. Another sea journey for me, to another destiny. This one I declined to take. “I may well arrive in Rome before him.” If news truly traveled on the wind, then it was a certainty.
“When is this to be?” asked Iras.
“In three days’ time,” I said. I turned to Olympos. “I wish you to return to your wife now. You are the only one of us with a family outside the palace. Please go there. You have done all you can for me—see how I mend?”
“No, I must stay until that ship sets sail!” he insisted.
“No,” I said. “Remember your task? It is imperative that you depart now. Distance yourself from us while you can. You already have the completed scrolls—all except this last, which I am finishing, and will finish, before I am taken away. Be sure to come and collect it; it will be with my other things. I will write instructions allowing it, which they will honor. Then fulfill your promise. To Philae, and Meroe. In your own time. You will know the hour.”
He grasped my hands in such a tight grip it hurt the bones. “I cannot just walk away, out of the palace, back to the Museion.”
I looked deeply into his eyes, and tried to make my command clear. “You must.” I paused. “It is over. Do not fail me now.”
“Is an ending so simple?” he asked. His voice had faded almost to nothing.
“We must make it so,” I said. “Let us not torture ourselves by drawing it out.”
He let go of my hands but continued looking, hawklike, at me. Then something in him gave up, yielded, and he leaned forward and embraced me. He kissed my cheek. I felt his to be wet.
“Farewell, my dearest,” he said. “I have preserved you safely to this hour. Now—I must give you to the gods.”
He pulled away and walked resolutely to the door, his back to me.
“You have done well,” I said. “For I have long been moving toward this hour.”
He lurched out of the room, as if he was in pain. I heard low arguing between him and the Roman guards, but they had no orders to hold him, and had to let him pass.
When I was absolutely sure that he was gone—forlorn feeling!—I gathered the remaining three around me.
“Listen,” I whispered, to thwart any eavesdroppers. “We will carry out our plan tomorrow. I have asked Octavian for permission to visit the mausoleum and perform final rites for Antony. We will dress in our finest garments, and partake of a funeral banquet, in privacy. Do you understand? I will send for my crown and jewels, ask Octavian to lend them. He will not refuse. Then we will be ready to depart and make our journey.”
“To Rome?” asked Mardian, an ironic twist to his mouth. He spoke loudly enough to be heard, should anyone be listening.
“Yes, we will go meekly to Rome,” I said, smiling. “We will all go together.”
“Then let us begin our preparations,” said Iras.
“Yes, you must help me select my clothes. For the most important occasion of all.”
Now I was thankful that Octavian had sent so many gowns to these rooms. I would have a wide choice. Something to occupy me for the passing hours.
Silently Charmian held up each gown, shaking out its folds and letting it hang free. She had just finished folding all of them; the labor to be undone so soon. The sorrow of it, part of the larger sorrow.
How many times had I done this? How many audiences and meetings had I draped myself for? Each of them had seemed pivotal at the time, each of them indeed important, but none had approached this.
Rustles of silk, whispering in all the colors of the sun and the fields: white, primrose, fern, poppy, the blue of the sea around the Lighthouse. Each had brought joy to my heart in its time. But none was right for—this. I needed a singular gown in which to meet Isis at last.
“There.” There it was, never yet worn. A green so pure that beside it emeralds were dirty and grass dull. The green of Egypt’s fields, the fierce green of her crops under the sun, glowing under the eye of Re. Green seemed the most Egyptian of all colors: her Nile, her crocodiles, her papyrus. And Wadjyt, the cobra goddess of Lower Egypt, whose very name means “the green one.”
“I shall wear this one.” I reached out and took it from Charmian.
The fine silk was soft in my hands. The neckline was low, square. Perfect. That would allow for a wide gold collar, as in an old tomb painting.
“And your hair, my lady?” asked Iras.
“It will need to go under my royal headdress,” I said. “It must be simple.”
“Simple is best,” she agreed.
“We must send for the finest bathing oils and perfumes,” said Char
mian. “For your hair must be perfect. Everything must be perfect.”
“Octavian will grant whatever we ask,” I said. “Let us make the request now, so he has time to send it by tomorrow morning.”
As it was growing dark, and the enemy Epaphroditus stepped in to see to the lamps, we greeted him pleasantly. He gave an embarrassed smile and wished us a good evening.
“The supper is on its way,” he said. “I trust you will find it tasty.”
“There is little I do not find agreeable,” I said. “My appetite is not finicky.”
He waved the burning stick he used to light the lamps. “That makes it easy,” he said. He paused. “As to your requests—I expect an answer soon.”
“I realize the Imperator has much to attend to,” I assured him.
“He will not neglect this,” said Epaphroditus.
The supper finished, the dishes removed, we sat waiting, silent. In the last hours, there is no busywork to make time pass. It was quite dark outside, and a brisk breeze coming in the windows made the lamp flames dance. I could hear the slapping of the water against the seawall. The harbor was playing tonight, saying, Listen! I am calling! Take your boats, ride upon me! And perhaps the lovers, the friends, the children, all the free citizens of the city, would accept the invitation.
Yes, the city was free. It would endure. And my children would take up the trust I left them, as I had taken my father’s. I had done all I could to ensure that. Caesarion…where was he? On his way to India?
I had done all I could. Nothing more remained. One son sent away, the others left to obey and appease the victor. Those were the only two routes open to them. Surely one would avail.
We lie down in the darkness, stretching out as if to sleep. Stretching like Nut, the sky goddess, who swallows the sun every night and gives birth to him each morning. I feel the smooth sheet beneath me, for the whole length of the bed.
How close Old Egypt is tonight. Hovering over me like Nut, surrounding me protectively. On our last night, the gods bend down, touch us.
The Memoirs of Cleopatra Page 142