Memoirs of Cleopatra (1997)

by Margaret George

  Because he is cold, calculating, and ruthless. Because he does not make mistakes. And because his very youth is in his favor--he has such a long time to accomplish his aims. All the time in the world . . .

  O Caesar--if you were truly a god, or gifted by the gods, why could you not discern the truth about Octavian? I cried inside, clenching my fists.

  What was it Octavian had said, talking of Achilles that night at the Saturnalia? "I wonder what it is to be the greatest warrior in the world." Until now, no one could take over a throne unless he was a commander, a warrior. But Octavian would find a way, since it was clear he was no soldier. He would find a new way. ... He had already got himself named Consul, eleven years before he was even eligible for the office.

  I felt as cold as I had during the snow that Saturnalia.

  Antony, Lepidus, beware! I whispered.

  Cicero had written to Brutus that Octavian must be "praised, honored, and then got rid of." He had thought to use him. But Octavian had remarked that he would know how to stop himself being got rid of. And it was Cicero's head that was struck off, on Octavian's orders.

  Octavian had come to Rome with nothing but Caesar's legacy--no troops, no money, no experience. Now he was one of the three rulers of Rome. It had taken him only a year and a half. He had just turned twenty.

  He had achieved in twenty months what it had taken Caesar, the great Caesar, twenty years to achieve.

  Chapter 40.

  The wind stood fair for sailing, and I walked in measured, stately paces, reviewing my fleet, readied now at last for the voyage to join the Triumvirs at Brundisium where they awaited me. Cassius had continued to demand the ships, and I had put him off with fair words while they were abuilding and I was in secret communication with Antony. Cassius's threatened invasion of Egypt had not yet taken place; Brutus had reminded him that their enemies were the Triumvirs and not Egypt. As if to show his scorn of me, Cassius recognized Arsinoe as the true Queen of Egypt, and hailed her as such at Ephesus.

  Arsinoe! Another of Caesar's misguided clemencies now turned against me! He had spared her after the Triumph, his heart touched by her. Now she emerged from sanctuary, decked out as Queen of Egypt. It did not take long for the truth to reveal itself: It was she who had persuaded Serapion to turn over the fleet at Cyprus. Doubtless she had promised him a high office in Egypt--the Egypt she planned to rule soon, with the help of the assassins.

  To think that Caesar had had his knife at all their throats as they knelt in submission--Cassius, Brutus, Arsinoe--and spared them! Well, we would not. Here Octavian's ruthlessness would stand us in good stead.

  Yes, I was allied with Octavian. For now we had the same purpose: to avenge Caesar's death. And after that?

  The fleet was magnificent. I had altogether some hundred vessels--not enough for a full navy, but enough to be of great help to the Triumvirs. My flagship, a "six"--two men on each oar at three levels--was named the Isis. I had elected not to have any ships larger than a "six," abandoning the earlier Ptolemaic mania for enormous ships, which had proved to be more a liability than an effective offense weapon. A six, equipped with a ram, could do damage enough. I had five other "sixes," ten "fives"--quinqueremes--and thirty "fours," quadriremes--the backbone of the navy, which could prove surprisingly fleet and agile, as well as powerful enough to sink larger ships. The tried-and-true triremes would be the workhorses, the jacks-of-all-trades, and I had twenty-five of them. The rest were light galleys, Liburnians, and supply transports.

  It was a great gift to lay at the feet of the Triumvirs. But it had not come without cost. My price for all this had been that Antony pronounce Caesarion Caesar's undoubted and natural son before the Senate, and that all three Triumvirs recognize him as my co-ruler: Ptolemy XVI Caesar. They had agreed. They wanted these ships very badly.

  And what ships they were! I found my heart racing as I looked at them, trim and sleek, smelling of pitch and wood and fresh canvas and rope. Going aboard the Isis, I took my place beside Phidias, the Rhodian captain, on the main deck. I meant to learn all I could about commanding a ship, although of course I would leave the moment-by-moment sailing decisions to the experience of the captain.

  "Here," he said solemnly, presenting me with a helmet. "You must wear the outward sign of a commander." I took it and lowered it over my head, slowly, feeling its weight encasing me. The feathers on. its crest waved in the wind.

  "I thank you," I said. I was eager to begin the voyage, to be the first woman since Artemisia of Halicarnassus to set out with her own fleet. And forgive my pride, but Artemisia had commanded only five ships in accompanying Xerxes, although she fought bravely and escaped pursuit by sinking an enemy ship.

  We were to sail straight west across the Mediterranean for some six hundred miles, then steer north for another five hundred or so, sailing between Italy and Greece until we reached Brundisium. There, where the gap between Italy and Greece was narrow, the Triumvirs planned to ferry troops across. I knew that the assassins had stationed a fleet of their own on the southernmost point of Greece to intercept me--should I "stray" from the right direction. But I would fight them--that was what sixes, fives, fours, and threes were for. And I prayed that the gods would give me as good victory as they had given Artemisia.

  We cast off from Alexandria, proceeding slowly out of the harbor, a straight line making its way through the narrow channel between the Pharos and the breakwater. Once in the open sea, we formed a closer gathering of vessels.

  How sweet the wind, how blue and beckoning the sea! The waters grew steadily darker, shading from the greenish turquoise of the shore into deeper blue where the bottom could no longer be seen. The wind slapped the water, chiding it playfully, making whitecaps that glittered as they broke. The bow of the ship dipped and rode the waves like a horse running free. Dolphins dove alongside us.

  "A cloudless sky," said the captain, squinting toward the horizon. "If this east wind keeps blowing, our voyage should be smooth and effortless." The sail was filled, creaking as the lines strained, pulling for Italy.

  We were skirting the coast of Africa, passing places that had always been just names to me: the desert west of Alexandria, where the sands were as white as alabaster, sparkling like salt; the little town of Taposiris, a miniature Alexandria with a temple of Osiris and a lighthouse one-tenth the size of its Alexandrian sister. I could see the pylons of the temple, and perceive the winking of the flame of the lighthouse. A series of these lighthouses served as signal posts all along the coast, as far as Cyrene.

  The wind whipped my cloak and tore at the feathers of my helmet. I was thankful to be wearing it, for it offered protection and shaded my eyes. I might have to adopt other clothing than a gown and cloak; clearly they were unsuited for standing on a deck in high winds. Should I wear the trousers of the barbarians, then?

  It made me laugh, picturing myself in breeches. But doubtless they would serve well on a ship. Or perhaps I would prefer the loincloths of the rowers? They had their advantages too. I smiled. No, not a loincloth!

  Soon I would be with the Triumvirs, joining forces with them. I could hardly believe that I was becoming part of a Roman army. But I owed it to Caesar to do whatever was necessary to avenge him.

  Did I want to see any of them again? I had thought to be done with them. When I had sailed away from Rome--so heartsick, so weakened--I had comforted myself with saying, No more Antony, no more Octavian, no more Cicero, no more Rome. Well, there was no more Cicero, but what of Antony and Octavian?

  Antony . . . Antony I wanted to see. Lepidus, yes, I would be happy to see Lepidus. Octavian ... I had seen all I needed of Octavian.

  For two nights I slept well in the built-in bed they had fashioned for me in the cabin. There were shelves with netting to hold my goods safe, and trunks bolted to the floor served as storage. So well secured was it that nothing rattled or broke loose as the wind rose during the third night, then turned into a howling monster.

  I slept unknowing unti
l the ship lurched and I sat upright, grasping the rails of the bed. The floor was bucking and jerking, and a cascade of water burst in through the closed window, drenching me. I staggered up out of bed, hanging on to the bolted furniture to keep my footing. Grabbing a heavy waterproof cloak, unable to see in the darkness, I felt my way along the passageway to the deck, crawling up the steps.

  Now I could see well enough. A storm had caught us in full fury, and wave after wave was breaking across the deck, rolling in like breakers on a beach. The sailors were struggling to take down the sail, and the captain was shouting orders, barely audible above the roar of the wind. I grasped him by the shoulders, and he turned as best he could.

  "It pounced on us as suddenly as a lion," he shouted. "The wind changed to the northwest; we're being blown back against the coast."

  "No, no, we have to keep out to sea!" I cried. How far were we from shore? It had been visible at sunset, but I had no way of knowing what had happened in the hours since.

  "We will do everything in our power," he said. "But our ships are toys against the force of the wind and waves." He broke off to rush across the deck and secure a line that was lashing like a whip, knocking sailors off their feet. While I watched, a man was washed overboard. I crawled to the mast and clung to it. My clothes were soaked, as heavy as metal.

  I looked toward shore--or, rather, away from the wind. I could see the faint pinprick of a light--it must be one of the signal lighthouses. If I could see it, that was bad indeed. It meant we were close to the coastline.

  The captain made his way back to the mast. "We've dropped anchor, and will try to ride it out," he cried. "The rowers will row against the wind, to hold us in place. But I fear the anchor will rip out anyway."

  And we would be borne relentlessly back onto the shore, there to break into pieces.

  The moon made a quick appearance between gaps in black, racing clouds. It showed a sea wrinkled, dark, and covered with sharp, peaked mountains of water--enormous waves. Seeing the size of them made my heart feel as if it stopped. They were higher than the mast of the ship. They paralyzed you with their sheer size--what could prevail against them? The ship was like a leaf blown into the troughs between waves. The helpless oars were lifted high, out of the water, where they rowed frantically against air, and the anchor line stretched, straining with a fearful whine, and snapped.

  I felt the jerk and shudder of the whole ship as it broke free and, suddenly freed from the weight of the anchor, spun like a top, slammed from all sides. Then the inexorable drifting, shoved by the wind, back, back toward the shore.

  The moon came out again, and in all the surrounding waters I saw the bobbing forms of the rest of the fleet. None of them could escape; we had been sailing close enough together that the storm encompassed us all.

  The ship listed to leeward, almost on its side. Water poured in through the oar ports. Now our only hope of survival would be to reach the shore before we sank. Suddenly the shore, too close before, looked impossibly far away. The ship lurched as it filled with water belowdecks, and the rowers struggled out from the hold, gasping and coughing. They staggered about on deck, dazed.

  Still clinging to the mast, I had to climb on it as the deck tilted, hugging it like a log. I heard a loud crash and realized that two ships nearby had collided, blown against each other. The splintering of wood and the agonized cries of the sailors rose above the wind. Pieces of masts and oars floated by, whirling, disappearing in the foam, then popping up again. Sometimes a man would be hanging on one, riding it like a raft.

  Ahead of us I saw the winking light. We would hit the shore--but would we sink first? If only the sinking was staved off until we were within swimming distance--and that meant very close indeed, for normal swimming was impossible in these high seas.

  A gigantic shudder, and the ship stuck on something. Then it wrenched free--or, rather, was torn free by the waves, lifted off and sent scudding along on its side again. The force of the momentary grounding tore the mast from its mooring, and I was thrown off, rolling across the sloping deck, until I hit the railing. There I stuck, almost in the sea. My face dipped down into the cold waves, and I pulled my head up, dripping with salt water. I had taken some into my lungs, and I coughed and gasped.

  Another shudder. The ship slammed against a sandbar, shaking. I heard a frightful sound, and I recognized it--the gods only know how, for I had never heard it before. But it was the unmistakable sound of the ship breaking up.

  It clove in half, and the two halves separated cleanly, flinging us into the heaving sea. I hit the water with such force I lost my breath, and the cold was a shock. But my head told me the water must be shallow here, or the ship would not have caught and shattered. And I swam in the direction of the lighthouse, pushed by the waves. When they sucked out, I found my feet could touch the bottom; only a little farther in, I could walk to shore.

  Another huge wave engulfed me, knocking me off my feet, but when it receded, I felt the firmness of the beach once more, and used those few seconds to walk closer to shore. The next wave knocked me over, too, but by the next one, I had reached the safety of waist-deep water, and I struggled to shore, exhausted, and collapsed on the beach.

  There I lay, gasping, and watched as others waded ashore, chased by timbers and fittings of the doomed fleet. One by one they reached the shore, falling limp on the sand. And there we lay, waiting for the light and the dreadful and certain knowledge of what had happened in the dark.

  The sun showed its rim above the horizon, in the direction of Alexandria. I had lain shivering under my heavy, waterlogged cloak for hours, hearing the moaning of those around me. The dawn showed a sea strewn with debris, half-hulks of ships still floating, other ships that seemed almost undamaged resting on the sands. Hundreds of sailors were hunched, shivering, up and down the beach.

  I was thankful to be alive, thankful that so many had survived. Some of the ships even looked--at first glance--to be repairable. But the losses were great, and I would be unable to aid the Triumvirs in their campaign. My magnificent fleet had not got very far.

  I could not see it as an omen. Shipwrecks were common, a fact of life. Octavian had been shipwrecked on his way to Spain; Caesar had twice lost his ships in Britain. There was nothing for it but to start over.

  But there was no way a fresh navy could be readied in time to help in the coming contest. I would have to be a passive spectator--something that sat ill with my nature.

  Where were we? The snowy sands held no landmarks. How far west had we got?

  I saw the captain, lurching along, dragging one leg. He had been injured, but was alive. "Phidias!" I called, waving to him. I pulled myself to my feet and ran to him.

  "You are safe!" he cried. "Thanks be to all the gods!" He nervously patted his dagger at his belt.

  "I hope you weren't thinking of behaving like a Roman," I said. "No matter what had happened to me."

  His expression told me that was just what he had considered. A captain who drowned his sovereign had lost his honor and should kill himself. But he was enough of a practical Greek that he wanted to ascertain exactly what had happened before jumping to conclusions. "The fleet is lost," he said. "I did my best."

  "I know. You could not control the heavens. And so many have been saved, it seems a miracle in itself."

  "The fleet--the beautiful fleet--a shambles!" He shook his head.

  "We will build another." I grieved for my lost fleet, my pride, my hopes. And under it, the disappointment that I would let Antony down, that I could not keep my word, although it was the gods who had prevented me, not men. Antony had made it across the Alps in winter, and I could not seem to escape from Egypt.

  "I think we are near Paraetonium," he said.

  The western border of Egypt, a lonely, sunbaked outpost.

  "I suppose I was overdue to see it," I said, attempting to lighten his spirits. "I should see my kingdom from west to east, as well as north to south."

  "There is not muc
h to see here, unless you like scorpions," he grunted.

  The journey back was a sad one. Merchant ships had to come and fetch the survivors and gather up the debris. Some of the ships could be patched and sail slowly back to Alexandria later. But it was a quiet, sober party of survivors who disembarked on the quay of the capital.

  And it was with agitated regret that I had to write Antony and tell him the devastating news--not to expect our help.

  The summer came, a time that should have been happy with planting, harvesting, and laden cargo ships plying the seas. But in Alexandria we were tense with waiting. We were defenseless now, stripped of our legions, our fleet destroyed. I began rebuilding it, beginning with an "eight," so that the flagship at least might be afloat before we were invaded. There was nothing standing between Egypt and the assassins now; they could march straight through Judaea and down to our borders. I also began raising my own army; it had been foolish to rely on the Roman troops. But that, too, was a slow business. Men are not turned into soldiers overnight.

  The story can be told quickly. Lepidus remained behind to guard Italy with three legions, and Antony and Octavian took twenty-eight to face Cassius and Brutus with their almost equal number. The site chosen by fate for the battle was near Philippi, in Greece. Octavian fell ill, as usual, in the midst of the preparations, and had to linger behind while Antony marched the legions and set up camp. The tactics of the assassins were to hold back and refuse to give battle, knowing that the Triumvirs were weak in supply lines and would run out of food as the weather worsened. Antony, realizing this, tricked them into battle as Caesar would have done, by building a causeway across a marsh to pierce their defense barriers. This lured Cassius from camp to counterattack, allowing Antony to charge into the camp and plunder it. In the meantime, Brutus's troops had attacked Octavian's camp and overrun it.