Memoirs of Cleopatra (1997)

by Margaret George

  Without his commanding officer, the young Marc Antony transferred his allegiance and services to a new general: Julius Caesar.

  Chapter 8.

  My life now took another of its abrupt turns; from acting younger than I was, and keeping myself hidden, I must now do the opposite. I must take my place alongside Father at all his official appearances--especially as he no longer had a Queen to stand beside him--and look worthy to step into his shoes. My tutors were reassigned to the younger children, and I was given real scholars from the Museion, as well as retired ambassadors to teach me the intricacies of diplomacy. In addition, I was expected to be present at all Father's council meetings.

  In some ways I missed my earlier freedom and unimportance; it seems that even unpleasant states have a way of recommending themselves to you after they are over. My days of running about with the Society of Imhotep had ended; and even Mardian and Olympos seemed distant, as if they were unsure how to treat me now. Never had I felt more alone--solitary and elevated.

  Yet would I have wished to be other than I was? No.

  Learning how to govern, day by day, was a painstaking process. To have command of all the workings of the country, a king had to master a multitude of details. These were covered, tediously, in council meetings. While Father sat at the head of them, I took a place to one side and listened. To have the canals dredged ... to collect the import taxes more efficiently ... to ration grain in a poor harvest year . . . yes, the ruler must know, and have wisdom on, these things. He who did not would be at the mercy of his ministers.

  And the choosing of ministers--that was an art in itself. You wanted the most talented, the most dedicated, as nothing less was worthy of the country. Yet the more talented, the more dedicated, a man was--the more his loyalty might waver. Seeing all your shortcomings, he might be tempted to turn against you.

  But to have fools for ministers was also a recipe for disaster. There were so many pitfalls a ruler could fall into.

  During the first year after Father's return, the infamous Rabirius and his debt dominated the council meetings. Father's total debt to Rome was now sixteen thousand talents; Gabinius had demanded ten thousand on top of the six that had already been agreed on. Egypt was reeling under it. Small wonder that certain elements later rebelled.

  But at this time, the problem was being tackled straightforwardly.

  People were in a benign, welcoming mood, glad that their King had returned. But when they were presented with the bill for restoring him, the murmurs would begin. And maybe grow into a full-fledged revolt.

  Father tried to get Rabirius to forgive some of the debt. Other advisors suggested that we increase import taxes to cover it. Still others said we should ask for an extension.

  I could not help but think that countries were only groups of people, and that the answer lay in remembering how individuals thought. People are more generous after they have been granted a favor; then they are more likely to grant one in return.

  "It seems to me that the people should pay the debt, and it should be paid on time. Otherwise the interest on it will just increase," I said, speaking up from the side of the gathering. "But it might be wise to announce a general amnesty before you announce the debt collection. Forgive bad debts and minor crimes and thereby appear magnanimous."

  One of the advisors opened his mouth to disagree, but Father looked impressed. "A good idea," he finally said.

  "It would create widespread goodwill," I said.

  "Yes, at a loss of our income!" protested one of the financial councillors.

  "It is a small loss, to offset such a large collection. There is little likelihood of our collecting those old debts in any case," I said. It seemed so obvious.

  "I shall think on it," said Father. And he ended up following my suggestion. I was most pleased.

  * * *

  Father was safe now; his throne was steady, supported by the might of Rome and the borrowed Gabinius legions. He was almost fifty, and purposed to enjoy his reign in peace--or, rather, in ease and comfort. He had his Dionysian revels, of course, his banquets and his poetry readings late at night to occupy him. And once he took us all hunting in the western desert, to emulate both the Pharaohs and the earlier Ptolemies.

  He had seen so many pictures of Pharaohs killing lions that he was minded, to seek one; he had had so many depictions made of himself smiting enemies on the walls of the temples that he had come to believe it had truly happened. And so we set out in order for the King to slay a lion--two hundred beaters, slaves, kennelmasters, provisioned (for what was the King to eat while waiting to bag his game?). We rode camels--the best beasts for the desert, despite the pictures of kings shooting from chariots. The lions had been driven farther and farther back into the desert wilderness, and we must seek them there.

  For a piece we kept along the seashore, but after a bit we turned inland along a ridge where the hunters assured us that lions lurked.

  I was swaying along on top of the camel, enjoying the rocking motion, my head protected against the piercing sun by an elaborate headdress. I did not care whether we found a lion or not, but I loved seeing this dangerous and empty land. The terrain stretched out supine in all directions, colored every shade of gold and brown. The wind, still fresh from the sea, came whipping around us, sometimes murmuring, sometimes sighing, sometimes whining.

  At night we slept in luxurious tents. The fabric was embroidered with tiny, painstakingly sewn designs, and over our beds were unfurled curtains of lightest silk to keep out any grains of sand or insects. Lanterns flickered on little ivory-inlaid folding tables, and our attendants slept on pallets at our feet. The largest royal tent, where the King was, was large enough that he could gather all his remaining children around him after the evening meal.

  As the wind whistled around the tent ropes, we would sit with him, lounging on cushions at his feet. Sometimes we would play a board game, such as draughts or senet. Arsinoe would play the lyre--she was quite talented at it--and the two boys would sometimes be playing a board game of their own. I can see us in my mind right at this moment; I can even smell the light, dry scent of the desert air. Four little Ptolemies, each ambitious, each determined to rule when the benevolent King passed on--the King who would soon begin nodding in his cups.

  I watched Arsinoe carefully. By this time she was thirteen to my sixteen, and every year she grew more beautiful. Her alabaster-pale skin had a pearly glow to it, her features were almost perfect, and her eyes were the color of the sea at Alexandria. Her temper was not good, she was demanding and emotional, but beauty has a way of softening all hearts.

  My oldest brother Ptolemy, almost eight now and presumably my future husband--what of him? I wished I could like him, I thought, as I watched his dark head bent over his game of dice, but he was a nasty little character, devious and selfish--the sort who moved the mark in games and lied about it when confronted. He was probably using crooked dice even now. He was a coward as well. I had watched him running from the most harmless dogs, and even from cats.

  Little Ptolemy should have been born first, so I would have been matched with him instead. The child seemed to have a double portion of the things his brother was lacking: he was forthright, cheerful, and high-spirited. As a couple, I realized, he and Arsinoe would be more appealing than the elder Ptolemy and I.

  Isn't that appalling? To be lying at our father's feet, a supposedly happy family relaxing, and to be thinking those thoughts? But that is what it is to be a Ptolemy: all our family affections are subordinated to our own ambitions, which are never at rest. The only thing that distinguishes any of us is whether we will draw the line at nothing to achieve our goals, or whether some acts remain forbidden.

  On this particular night, Arsinoe was lounging back against the cushions, plucking at her lyre and murmuring some words. Her voice was not particularly pleasing, I was glad to note. The lanterns were winking, and Father was lifting another cup of wine to his lips, a dreamy expression on his face.
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br />   "Give me some," I suddenly said. "Anything that brings such an otherworldly contentment to your face must have been sent from the gods."

  When the servant poured me some and I tasted it, it was truly sublime-- heavy, sweet, and golden.

  "From Cyprus," said the King. "They have long been famous for their wines, which keep a long time and don't turn bitter." A dark look came over his face. "Cyprus. Our lost Cyprus!" He reached for his pipes. He was about to start playing, and then weep.

  "Tell me more about Cyprus!" I said. I didn't want to sit through one of his musical performances, followed by a bout of self-pity. I think that was what I liked least about him--the maudlin indulgences, not the wine itself. "What happened with you and Cato there?" On his way to Rome, Father had stopped at Cyprus, where Cato sat, inventorying the last Ptolemy's possessions.

  "Cato! What do they call him in Rome? The austere, hard-drinking Cato.' How can they go together?" He laughed, a tinkling, drunken laugh. "The Romans took Cyprus from my brother! Just annexed it, and my poor brother had to drink poison." Tears welled up in his eyes.

  "But Cato? What did he have to do with it?"

  "They sent Cato out to help himself to the treasury there, and to complete the annexation, make it part of the province of Cilicia." He sniffed. "When I arrived, Cato--Cato--! He received me while--while--sitting on a privy!"

  I gasped. I knew Father had been insulted, but not to this extent. So we had truly fallen this low? A Roman official received a Ptolemaic king while seated on a privy? I burned with shame, and anger. Did everyone know about this? Had Gabinius and Antony?

  "It smelled bad," added the King. "Very bad. So I suppose what he said was true--his bowels were upset, and he dared not move."

  "Curse his bowels!" said Arsinoe suddenly. She had not even seemed to be listening.

  "I think, from what Father says, they were cursed," I said. "I hope they continue to be so."

  "He has enemies," said Father. "He is very conservative; he tries to make a case for himself as a noble of the old Roman type, but his day, and the day of others like him, is passing. Caesar will sweep him from the board, as I sweep these draughts." He gave an unsteady swat that knocked a few pieces to the ground.

  "The same Julius Caesar who took over Rabirius's debt?" I asked. "When will he come to Egypt to collect it?"

  "Never," said Father, "if we are lucky. He is busy conquering Gaul; they say he's the greatest general since Alexander. Of course our patron, Pompey, doesn't think so. Their rivalry grows every day. No, child, only if Pompey is put down by Caesar will Caesar ever come here. And if Pompey is vanquished, the fortunes of Egypt will vanish with him. So pray Caesar never comes here!" He hiccuped gently.

  "Caesar must be surrounded by enemies," said Arsinoe. "Cato on the one hand, Pompey on the other."

  "He is," said Father. "But he seems to be made of iron; nothing bothers him. He trusts completely to his luck, to his destiny. At the same time, he seems to tempt it." He began laughing--cackling, almost. "He has made Cato's sister his mistress!"

  We all screamed with laughter.

  "Love as a weapon," said Arsinoe. I knew what she was thinking: With my boks, it is a weapon open to me.

  "That is one we Ptolemies have never employed," Father said. "Strange, when we've exploited all the others."

  "Perhaps none of us were very lovable," I suggested. "Nonsense!" said Father.

  * * *

  Time passed; Father stayed on his throne; the Romans continued their bickering amongst themselves, which diverted their attention. There were many ceremonial occasions to keep us busy, in addition to the real, behind-the-scenes work.

  The Alexandrians wished to dedicate a newly laid-out precinct to us--a park that included plantings, statuary, and pools on the outskirts of the city. We attended in full royal regalia, presented by Father for the occasion, human statues in the midst of the stone ones. I was seventeen then, becoming used to such ceremonies.

  But on this day two things were different. The inscription--dictated by Father--carved on the stone called us all "Our Lords and Greatest Gods." So we were all gods now, not just the ruler? He stood proudly as the stone was exhibited and the startling words recited.

  "O living gods, and goddesses, we throw ourselves at your blessed feet--" the magistrate was saying. One by one citizens came and bent their heads before us, then knelt. I looked down and saw people shaking, as if they were afraid of inhaling some deadly, divine mist. Who could know how much playacting went into it, or how much they were overtaken by the moment?

  And then Father spoke, saying, "Today my children, the gods, assume a new title: Philadelphoi, Brother-and-Sister-Loving. May they be locked together in the love that binds those who share the same blood."

  Standing shoulder to shoulder with my siblings, I knew it could never be. But it was touching that Father wished it so.

  Afterward we gathered in Father's private dining chamber to seal the ceremony with a meal. Arsinoe was the first to fling off her gold robe: Pronouncing it too heavy to drag around, she let it fall in a crumpled heap.

  "Should not the weight of gold sit lightly on a goddess's shoulders?" I teased her. Underneath it she was wearing a thin blue gown that duplicated the blue of her eyes.

  She merely shrugged. Either she felt no different, or she had always assumed godhood for herself.

  Father took his place at the head of our family. He looked tired, as if he should be the one to find the heavy robes oppressive. It was only then that I saw the weariness in him; suddenly he seemed much older.

  He took up an agate cup and stared at it moodily as he motioned for wine. "This cup came from our ancestral homeland," he said. "Macedonia. I wish you to remember that we started out drinking from stone cups, even though we have ended surrounded by gold." He took a sip. Then another.

  "Did the ceremony please you?" he asked.

  We all nodded dutifully.

  "Surprise you?"

  "Yes. Why did you bestow the two new titles?" I finally asked, since no one else seemed willing to talk.

  "Because I wish you all to be treated as sacrosanct, by each other as well as by outsiders, after I am gone--"

  Was he just being foresighted and tidy, or was he aware of a reason to hurry?

  "Gone where?" asked the smallest Ptolemy, perched on his stool--it was padded and studded with gems, but it was a stool nonetheless--and leaning on his elbows.

  "After he's dead," said his brother, coldly, the nine-year-old realist.

  Arsinoe kept chewing languidly on an onion stalk, such was the warmth of our little family. "Oh," she finally said.

  "It is kind of you to think so far ahead," I said. "But surely that is not of immediate concern." I meant it as a question. But he chose not to answer it.

  "A good ruler must take precautions. Now, I wish to inform you about my will. I have dispatched a copy to Rome, since they have such an . . . interest in our affairs, proclaiming themselves guardians of our welfare. It might give offense if I did not. And there is already a precedent for it." He took several sips of the wine, each one closer to a gulp.

  "One copy remains here," he continued. "That, too, is a precaution. Wills can be altered, lost. . . and to offset that, you must hear my provisions from my own mouth."

  I noticed that Arsinoe had stopped chewing and was sitting up straighter.

  "Surely it will come as no surprise to you that Cleopatra will succeed me," he said. He turned toward me with a smile. "She is the oldest, and has been trained for the station." But his eyes said more; they said, And she is the child of my heart, the one I choose above all others.

  I did not look at Arsinoe, but I knew that she was sullen.

  "With her as co-regent will be her first brother, Ptolemy. In due time they must marry, as is the custom."

  Both boys giggled, as if they found it all silly and odious. Well, it was odious, but too serious to be silly.

  "Father," I said, "perhaps that custom should be allowed to
lapse."

  He shook his head, sadly. "Ending it would bring more trouble than observing it. Every fortune hunter of a prince would converge on our shores. It would be like one of the old myths, where suitors hung about, being tested by the father or the gods, having to perform impossible feats--I have other things to do than to preside over contests for your hand."

  "I always wondered why the suitors came and risked themselves in the stories," said Arsinoe. "The rejected ones always got killed."

  Father laughed. "Princesses exert a deadly lure."

  After the meal was over, Father asked me to remain with him. The others did not linger; the scowling Arsinoe picked up her robe and dragged it scornfully behind her as she left, as if to show that she disdained Father's gifts, since he did not offer her the highest one.

  "Now, my child," he said, as he took his seat on a cushioned bench beside me, with a fine view of the harbor, "there is something else."

  I had sensed that there must be. "Yes?"

  "I think it would be wise to associate you in ruling with me now," he said.

  "In ceremonies? But we already--"

  "No, to elevate you formally to co-regency. To proclaim you Queen."

  Queen . . . now? It seemed toe wonderful--to taste the joys without having to swallow the sorrow of Father's loss at the same time. "I am touched by the honor you offer me," I finally said.