Memoirs of Cleopatra (1997)

by Margaret George

  "Take you where?"

  "To see the pyramids and the Sphinx."

  I expected her to be angry, but she burst out laughing. Then I realized why. She had been afraid we were involved in something political, but this was innocent. I felt relief flooding me. She was not going to harm me. Not today.

  "I've never seen them myself," she said. "I am a bit embarrassed to admit it."

  "They were all I had dreamed of," I said. "They made me proud to be an Egyptian."

  "You aren't an Egyptian, you are a Ptolemy--a Greek!" she reminded me.

  "The Ptolemies have been here three hundred years; we must be Egyptian by now."

  "What a stupid thing to say! Another of your silly ideas! We don't have a drop of Egyptian blood; it doesn't matter how long we've been here!"

  "But--" I started to say that we could be Egyptian in spirit if not in blood, but she cut me off.

  "If a red piece of granite stands next to a gray piece of granite for a thousand years, does it change?" she bellowed.

  "People are not granite," I insisted.

  "Sometimes they can be almost that hard."

  "Not you," I said. "There is a part of you that is kind." I was trying to flatter her.

  The half-smile returned. "I hope my husband may find me so."

  "Husband?" I almost choked.

  "Yes. I had just married when our sister Cleopatra left us. She turned my house of joy into one of mourning. But such are the accidents of fate."

  "Who--who is he?"

  "Prince Archelaus of Pontus," she replied, and this time the smile became a full one. He must be handsome, and pleasing to her.

  "How much has happened in the few days I was away!" I blurted out.

  "And more besides," she said. "We are making ready to defend ourselves against our father's mercenaries! With Roman money--borrowed, of course-- he has hired yet other Romans to invade Egypt and try to take back the throne!" Her voice shook with the effrontery of it all.

  "But what of the Sibylline prophecy?" I asked, yet again.

  "Cicero found a way around it! Yes, the great Roman orator, who prides himself on being so noble, is like any merchant making a deal in the bazaar. The only difference is that he trades in words, not deeds."

  "But what words did he use?" Would no one tell me? I knew the prophecy: If an Egyptian king should come asking for help, do not refuse him friendship; but do not go to his aid with force, for if you do you will meet with dangers and difficulties. How to get around that?

  "Something to the effect that Gabinius, the Roman governor of Syria, should send the King on ahead of him, so that he won't be accompanying him 'with force'--only backing him up!" She snorted. "We shall be ready for them!" she said with certainty.

  Father was on his way back! The Romans would restore him to the throne! It was all I could do not to burst into cheers. "I shall stay in my quarters," I assured her. "You need not worry again about my whereabouts. I am grieved that my absence caused you any concern."

  She had forgotten about punishing Nebamun; the Roman army had banished all ordinary thoughts from her mind. I would hide in my rooms and hope she forgot about me, too.

  * * *

  Things happened very quickly. It was your wish, O Isis--you who deliver the plotter of evil against other men into the hands of the one he plots against-- that my father, Ptolemy XII Philopator Neos Dionysus, should be restored to his throne. It was you who brought the troops of Gabinius to the outskirts of Egypt at Pelusium, who let them overcome the garrison there, and march upon Alexandria. It was you who caused the confusion and overthrow of Berenice's forces and the death of her new bridegroom, Archelaus. It was you who made Gabinius's young cavalry commander show mercy to the defeated Egyptians, and give an honorable burial to Archelaus, and thus win the love of the Alexandrians. His Roman name was Marcus Antonius, and he was twenty-seven years old.

  It was you who arranged it all, moved all these events, in only a few days provided my entire future and revealed its form.

  Berenice must be publicly executed. Now I was the eldest surviving child, the one who would be Queen.

  Queen. I would be Queen. I kept repeating the words to myself, but I was not impatient for it before my time; unlike my sisters, I would let it happen when it was destined to. Their attempts to twist fate had merely given the throne to me. That made me smile.

  I--Queen. The third child, and a girl. Truly, this was the work of Isis, she who shapes fate.

  My joy at seeing Father again was unbounded. I threw my arms around him, realizing that now my eyes were almost level with his. He had been away three long years, years that had wrought many changes in me.

  "You are back! Safe!" It seemed impossible, as the answers to prayers often do.

  He was looking at me as if he had forgotten what he would see. "You have grown lovely, child," he finally said. "You will be the Queen that Egypt deserves."

  "I am fourteen now," I reminded him, in case he had lost track. "I hope I will not be Queen for a long time--may the Pharaoh live for a million years, as the ancients said."

  "Your smile is the same," said Father gently. "I carried it with me in my heart the whole time."

  Yet this same sentimental man forced us to witness the execution of his other daughter, Berenice. How can we be so many different people, all contained within the same body?

  I tried to excuse myself, on the grounds that it was an intrusion; a person should be able to die privately. But Father insisted.

  "Just as her treason was public," he said, "so too must her punishment be."

  And he insisted that the Romans be present, too. The Romans, who had restored him to power--for a price. Now they must see what their money had bought.

  We had to take our places before a barracks that housed the Household Guards; seats of honor had been hastily erected. Before leaving for the grounds, Father had presented the Roman officers to me. Aulus Gabinius was a square, stocky man, a no-nonsense sort, as one would expect of someone who defied a prophecy. And his star cavalry officer, Marcus Antonius... I found him a winsome young man, one whose smile was genuine.

  And, to be honest, that is all I remember of him from that first meeting.

  Berenice was led out before the barracks, her hands bound behind her back. She was not blindfolded, but forced to look at us all, her ghoulish audience.

  "You have been found guilty of treason, of usurping the throne in the absence of your rightful King," intoned Pothinus, one of the King's ministers, a young eunuch. His voice had the timbre of a child's but the carrying power of an adult's. "For this you must pay the penalty, and die."

  "Have you any words?" asked the King. It was a formality only. Did he truly wish to hear any?

  "Slave of the Romans!" she cried. "There they sit!" She jerked her head toward Gabinius and Antonius and Rabirius, the moneylender who had financed the campaign. "There they sit, never to be dislodged from Egypt! Who, then, is the traitor to this country, Father?"

  "Enough!" said Pothinus. "This will be your last breath!" He motioned to the soldier who was to strangle her. The man stepped up behind her. His forearms were the size of most mens thighs.

  Berenice was standing rigid, waiting. She closed her eyes as he brought his hands around her throat, then clasped them with a jerk. For what seemed a very long time she was obviously holding her breath, but then suddenly her body rebelled and she began twisting, trying to loosen his grip. Her hands were helplessly tied behind her, and there was little she could do. The soldier finally lifted her up by her neck and held her there as the life was snuffed out in her and her body at last stopped twitching. Her feet hung down straight from the ankles; one of her sandals fell off, making a loud plop in the still air. I saw that her face had turned a hideous dark color, and I looked away. Then I heard a noise of tramping feet, and saw her being loaded onto a litter and carried away. One of her feet--the one without a sandal--dragged along the ground; if she had been living it would have distressed her. But now sh
e did not mind.

  Father's face had lost its color, although he did not betray any open emotion. Next to him Gabinius had winced, and Antonius had looked away. Soldiers preferred battlefield killing to this formal, ritualized death. On either side of me sat my remaining siblings, taking in this cautionary lesson. Arsinoe had given a sharp gasp when the executioner stepped forward. The two boys--six and four--squirmed in unison. Even they understood that this was not a game, that Berenice would not jump up off the litter. We all saw, and learned, different things that day.

  As I watched the hideous ritual, I knew that she had bequeathed something to me, something she had not exactly intended. From her I knew now that a woman could rule alone--a strong woman, that is. The earlier Ptolemaic queens had come to power through their marriages, but Berenice had proved that a woman could seize her own power, and only afterward choose the man. Or choose no man at all, should she prefer that.

  Then, I was acutely aware that Roman troops had brought about this restoration, and that Roman troops were for hire for the promise of Ptolemaic money. Their forces, our money: a formidable combination. And last, in spite of the hatred of the Romans as a political fact, individual Romans were not demons. In fact, they could be quite attractive. Gabinius and this Antonius were personable, pleasant, and well mannered. All the pat jokes about Romans being barbarians--I remembered what I had believed about them before the Pompey dinner--were simply not true.

  And there was something else, something I had glimpsed in all this: The Romans were divided among themselves. One group was against restoring Father, another for it. One set of rules forbade it, but a clever rewording got around that. Everything in Rome was not set in stone, and perhaps one side could be used to counteract another... . .

  These were ideas, formless at the time, but just beginning to reveal themselves to me. The Romans were not merely a force against which we were helpless, but were torn by factions and rivalries of their own, which could be turned to our advantage. I saw that our adversary had holes in his armor. Father had successfully exploited one--with Egyptian money. One must always have money.

  Father made it clear that the Romans were welcome to stay in Alexandria-- for a short time. Then they should discreetly remove themselves. But first there was to be a Dionysian festival to celebrate the King's restoration to the throne. He saw himself as the descendant of that mysterious god of wine, of joy and drama and life itself. In the great festivals of Bacchus--the god's Roman name--he sought release and ecstasy and belonging: all the things he could not find in Alexandria in the broad daylight, dazzling though it is in that city of cities.

  In readying myself for the formal procession through the streets, I was acutely aware that I would be the object of intense curiosity. I, hitherto the third child and practically unnoticed, was now the heir. Everyone would want to assess me; all eyes would be upon me. I went through anguish in choosing my costume, having my hair dressed. And when it was finished, I knew I would look in the mirror and have the answer that had been so long in coming. Was I beautiful? Pleasing? Special? Would a timely jar of beauty from Persephone open itself for me?

  I settled on a hairstyle that hung down around my shoulders. I was still young enough to wear a girl's hairdo, and I knew that my hair was pretty-- no sense in hiding it before its time. It was almost black, thick and shiny, with a slight curl to it. And I chose for my dress a thin white linen, knowing that nothing becomes black hair like a white dress. I wanted to wear the tight style of older Egypt, since my shape was slim, but Grecian style fitted the occasion better, with all its floating folds.

  At least I no longer had to bind my breasts; the death of Berenice had ended that. I could let my body speak for itself. And my breasts--even in my critical eyes, I could find no fault in them.

  As I finished dressing, I saw Arsinoe reflected in the mirror behind me-- Arsinoe, who had all the conventional beauty I longed for.

  I moved the mirror so her image vanished. And then I studied myself, tried to imagine a stranger seeing me. And I was not displeased.

  If I saw her, I thought, I would want to know her better.

  I shrugged, and put the mirror down, as I bent to select the appropriate jewelry. Perhaps that was the best verdict anyone could reasonably hope for: If I saw her, I would want to know her better.

  Now, as we rode at a stately ceremonial pace through Alexandria, I watched the crowd lining both sides of the wide streets. The procession had begun at the palace, then wound its way past Alexander's tomb, past the long, colonnaded Gymnasion, past the Library, the Temple of Serapis, the artificial hill of the park of Pan, the theater--all the monuments of our great city. The vast, excitable crowd today was cheering, climbing on roofs to see us, shinnying up columns, straddling statues. Since we were following in the wake of Dionysus and his wineskins, by the time we came upon them, the people were flushed and merry and forgiving. These were the very same people who had rioted when a Roman soldier accidentally killed a sacred cat-- unstable, violent. Today they were our devoted partisans. Tomorrow?

  Far behind us, to signify the end of the procession, walked a man costumed as Hesperus, the evening star.

  At length we reached our destination: the Stadium, transformed into a pavilion where the festivities would take place. The normal open-air field had been roofed over with a lattice of ivy-and grape-entwined beams, supported by columns shaped like Dionysus's sacred wand. The brilliant afternoon sunlight filtered through the green leaves as we entered the cave of the god, to the rites of drunkenness and ecstasy.

  Or, rather, my father entered it. As a devotee of the god, he took it upon himself to seek union with Dionysus by way of wine. While the rest of us sampled the new vintage from the vineyards of the Canopic branch of the Nile, Egypt's finest, Father gulped it. Then, as the dancing began--for actors and musicians were sacred to the god, and inspired by him--Father seemed to go into a trance. He had put on the sacred ivy wreath, and now pulled out his flute and started playing melodies.

  "Dance! Dance!" he ordered everyone around him. The Egyptians obeyed, but the Romans looked on, appalled.

  "I said dance!" the King demanded. He waved his pipes toward one of the visiting Romans, an army engineer.

  "You! There! Demetrius! Dance!"

  Demetrius looked as though he had been ordered to jump into a malarial swamp. "I do not dance," he said, and turned his back and walked away.

  "Come back here!" The King attempted to catch the fold of his tunic, but tripped instead, and his ivy wreath slipped over one eye. "Oh!"

  A group of Gabinius's soldiers was snickering. I felt deep shame for my father. I knew he was merely engaging in the time-honored behavior of the Bacchanalia, but those rites had been banned in dignity-conscious Rome. To the Romans, this was just a comic, drunken spectacle.

  "So that's why he's nicknamed Auletes--the flute-player," said a voice nearby. I saw it belonged to Marcus Antonius--or Marc Antony, as he was commonly called.

  "Yes, but the people of Alexandria gave him the name in affection," I said stiffly. "They understand about the rites of Dionysus."

  "So I see." He gestured around at the crowd.

  Here was another prissy, judgmental Roman--so proper, while imposing themselves on the rest of the world! I glared at him, until I saw that he himself was drinking from a silver goblet. "At least you don't consider your lips too good to touch Egyptian wine," I said. As I spoke, he held out his goblet for a costumed server to refill it.

  "Quite passably good," he said, sipping it. "I've a great fondness for wine; I make it my business to test the vintage wherever I go. I've had Chian wine, Rhaetic, the undrinkable Coan and Rhodian, and the incomparable Pramnian." He sounded like a father naming his children.

  "Is the Pramnian really all it is said to be?" I asked, as he seemed so happy to be talking about it.

  "Indeed. It is honey-sweet; they don't squeeze it from the grapes of Lesbos, they let it ooze out of its own accord."

  He really was q
uite relaxed and unpretentious; I found myself liking this Roman. He was handsome, too, in a bullish sort of way: thick neck, wide face, and a frame bulging with muscles.

  "Yes, I understand Dionysus," he said, more to himself than to me. "I also like actors. In Rome I prefer them to the senators!"

  He broke off as the King came reeling through the crowd, chased by women dressed as Maenads, pursuing the god, shouting and laughing.

  "Dancing is considered immoral in Rome," he said. "That is why Demetrius refused to dance. Please inform the King of that, when he's--not the god any longer, but returns to himself."

  How diplomatic of him to avoid saying when he's sober again. I did like this young Roman, who seemed so very un-Roman.

  But he did not stay in Alexandria long; within a month he and Gabinius had departed, although the three legions were left behind to keep order. The one Roman who should have gone with them stayed--Rabirius, the infamous financier. He was determined to recoup his loan directly from the Egyptians, and forced the King to appoint him finance minister. Then he proceeded to extort huge sums from the populace. The Alexandrians, always with a mind of their own and virtually never subservient, drove him away. Father was lucky that they did not sweep him off the throne again in the process.

  In Rome, both Gabinius and Rabirius had to stand trial before the Senate: Gabinius for disregarding the sacred Sibylline oracle and the decree of the Senate, and Rabirius for serving in an administrative post under a foreign king. Gabinius was forced to go into exile, but the crafty Rabirius got off.