The Memoirs of Cleopatra (104 page)

The statue of the goddess seemed to waver in the light. I turned my head and looked at her. I wish to be like you, I thought. I must be strong as well as compassionate. You never accepted fate as something immutable, but you remade your own fate against all odds.

All my life that was what I had tried to do. If the old priest had glimpsed the end of the line of Pharaohs—why, it was but a glimpse, it was not something already written. It was only a warning. I could change that. I
would
change that.

I slept; or, rather, darkness fell around me and entered my head. And then the Bed of Dreams lived up to its frightful name. I was visited, through all the night hours, with my own fearful glimpses of the past, the present, and the future. I saw the beginnings of Egypt, shadows riding in old costumes, driving old chariots; I recognized in human form some of the Pharaohs I knew only by statues (and was surprised at how small they had been in life). I saw my own self as a child, dressed in Greek clothes and living in my Greek palace, white stone instead of native brown and gold, saw Antony come to Egypt, and Caesar too, and then saw a swarm of other Romans, descending like locusts, blotting out the land. And other costumes, too, odder ones, followed them, surrounding the pyramids like a flooded Nile, lapping at their bases. Then the Nile subsided, and did not rise again, neither did it shrink. And I saw Heliopolis itself a ruin and a sandy mound, only the obelisks remaining to mark the center of the world.

“Awaken, Exalted One.” A soft voice spoke in my ear.

I did not wake up so much as I was delivered from these apparitions. Nakht stood by my bedside, lamp in hand.

“Khepri nears the eastern horizon,” he said. “Soon he will emerge from behind the persea tree, and we must greet him there.”

I felt so disoriented, so transported from my familiar world, that it seemed of utmost importance to greet the rising sun—I who allowed him to arrive unheralded each morning in Alexandria. Indeed, there were times when he was already high in the sky, sending beams into the middle of the room, before I even noticed him.

“Yes, of course.” I rose. The lamps were still bright in the gloom. Isis stood watching.

Outside there was no hint that dawn was coming except that the birds had awakened. Somehow they sensed the passage of time, the minute change in the intensity of the dark, in a way we could not. Walking down the avenue of obelisks, the palms behind them still invisible, we passed into the orchard, then to a mound where a circle of priests was waiting, their white robes swimming like mist out of the gloom. In the center stood the sacred persea tree, its bushy branches making the tree appear rounded. No one spoke, and we took our places silently in the circle.

Gradually the sky lightened, and—never has anything seemed more solemn, deliberate, and majestic—a gray bed was prepared for the sun by the clouds on the eastern rim of the earth. Finally a wink of sunlight was seen, strong and true, putting the night to flight. It gleamed through the branches of the tree, painting each of the leaves so they shone, hundreds of little mirrors.

The priests burst into song, rejoicing. Then, as the sun climbed above the horizon, they turned and walked swiftly back to the temple, passing into the open room with the gold-clad obelisk, standing before it in reverence.

The shining surface of the obelisk, its beaten gold giving back wavering reflections, waited. A spark seemed to touch its pointed apex; a star grew there. It hurt my eyes to behold it.

“Ahh,” the priests exhaled.

“The sun is reborn,” they intoned. The burning spot at the apex intensified; then it faded. Along the ridge of the obelisk a flame seemed to appear, spreading up and down its length. The sun was growing in strength, climbing into the sky. Overhead it was no longer black, nor deepest blue, but a clear, jubilant, bursting azure. The day was here. The sun, the life, had returned.

“Thanks be to Re,” they sang joyfully, celebrating their deliverance.

As long as the sun rose each day, as long as they could behold it, their life was secure.

It was their task to live each day as something contained unto itself, whereas I…I must try to anticipate the future, manage the present. How much easier just to celebrate the supreme achievement of another night passed….

Now the priests turned and walked toward the ceremonial chamber, where the statue of Re must be ritually washed with purified water, and celestial food offered him by priests wearing the masks of stars. I watched as they lovingly wiped the face of the statue, as they had for more years than could be counted, and attended his imagined needs.

Stars…how lovely to be attended by stars.

Alexandria, Rome, Octavian, Antony—how far away they seemed, how small against the Egyptian gods.

In my strange life, I played many parts. I was Isis, I was daughter of Re, I was a Ptolemy—most scheming of ruling houses—I was Queen of Egypt, I was mother of the next Pharaoh, I was wife of a Roman Triumvir, I was Caesar’s widow, and Octavian’s implacable enemy. How fate had cast me in so many parts, I could not understand. How I could play them all, and keep them separate—if indeed I did—I understood even less.

Antony had returned from Armenia some months after I had returned from Heliopolis. Of our two ventures, I think I was more changed by mine, although I had set out on it in all innocence, thinking only to inspect my balsam bushes—a mere business trip. He, who had high matters of state on his mind, had ended by conducting a campaign whose outcome was predictable. The might of all the east turned against Armenia. How else could it end, but with Artavasdes in chains, a royal prisoner?

That he was in silver chains—that was the only novelty in it all. That, and Antony’s sudden, fierce desire to celebrate his victory in Alexandria. Rome had been silent toward him, despite the proud announcement of his conquest that he had sent posthaste to Rome. No feasts or celebrations were held, no days of thanksgiving decreed in the capital in his honor.

“It is as if…as if they no longer look upon me as a Roman,” he had said. I could not tell, from his tone, whether he was insulted or shaken: perhaps a little of both.

“I am sure your supporters in the Senate are trumpeting it,” I assured him.

“No, my enemies are muffling it,” he fumed.

“It cannot stay muffled.”

“They should invite me for a Triumph,” he said. “I have earned it! How dare they not?”

“As long as Octavian can counter it, he will.”

“Octavian is still in Illyria,” said Antony stubbornly. “I want a Triumph. I have earned it!”

He had never celebrated a Triumph, although his grandfather had, in the days when they were not easily awarded. But Triumphs were meant to mark victories over foreign foes, and Antony’s successes had been primarily in the civil wars. He had been hailed as Imperator three times, but those had been for actions against Pompey, against Cassius and Brutus, only finally against the Parthians. He and his general Bassus had been granted Triumphs for their success against the Parthians who had earlier invaded the Roman territory in Syria; Bassus had returned to Rome to celebrate his, but Antony had postponed it.

“Yes, I know.” For a Roman general of his stature never to have celebrated a Triumph was a great void. He was aching to fill it; he wanted recognition. He wanted to ride in a chariot, be acclaimed, have prisoners of war march behind him, hear the shouts.

“I shall grant one to myself!” he suddenly said.

O Isis! And go to Rome? I felt my heart slow in its beating. He was due two of them: one that he shared with Bassus, and now the one against the Armenians.

“I shall hold one here, in Alexandria!” he continued. “What is magical about Rome? To whom do I wish to present my spoils? Is it not you, my Queen? I fought in spite of Rome, in spite of their cutting off my recruitments, with my own eastern soldiers and the remnants of my old legions. Why not here?”

He wanted it so badly. But a Triumph was not a Triumph outside Rome. It was connected with Rome, granted by the Senate, and its spoils were to be laid at the feet of the Roman god, Jupiter Maximus, in his temple on the Capitoline hill.

“You can celebrate your victory here,” I said. “Although it cannot be a true Triumph. That can only be granted by the Roman Senate. But certainly, Alexandria would make a fine setting for a victory parade…”

I sat on a golden throne, raised high on a silver platform, on the steps of the Temple of Serapis. I had granted Antony his wish, and ordered Alexandria scrubbed and prepared for his celebration. My heart ached for him, a man passed over in his native land. He was truly a son of Rome, but they had cast him out. Well, the day would come when they would welcome him—nay, not only welcome him, but bow low in homage. Yes, that day would come! And sooner than they thought!

His procession had started out from the palace at an early hour, and it was still winding its way through the streets, past the harbor and the Temple of Neptune, out the broad white street of Canopus, so all the cheering crowds could see, then back again past the hill of Pan, where it would turn west. It would pass the solemn intersection of the Street of the Soma and the Canopic Way, paying homage to the tomb where the body of Alexander lay, and the Mausoleum of the Ptolemies, then the Gymnasion and law courts, where, on both sides, the masses would be packed between the colonnades. The windows and steps of the Museion would be crowded with scholars and their students, as eager to catch a glimpse as anyone else. And then, last of all, Antony would process here, to me, at the Serapion. Here I awaited him, with all my court spread out on the steps of the great building.

I could hear the distant shouts as he approached. Each section of the city rose and cheered as the troops, the prisoners, the chariots, the spoils of war, passed by. I watched my children, arrayed on both sides of me like wings, sitting straight and straining their eyes for the moment when the procession would first come into view. It was a sight the children of Rome were well acquainted with; I remembered the hordes at Caesar’s. In his Roman tunic and cloak, Caesarion looked every bit the son of Caesar—if only Octavian could see him now! Alexander and Selene were dressed in Greek clothing, and the restless Alexander was thumping his sandaled feet against the silver rungs of his chair of state. I myself was dressed, as befitted a ceremony at the Serapion and the Shrine of Isis, in the costume of the goddess. To all the people gathered here today, I was the visual reminder of her, the earthly representative of Isis. The silver-threaded gown, with its pleats covering my shoulders and breasts like ripples of water, had a prominent knot of the thin, precious material between my breasts—the emblematic knot of Isis. I wore a heavy wig, one that had long braids adorned with silver ornaments that twinkled in the sun.

From our vantage point on the hill, I could see the throngs of people spread out on all sides like a carpet. Each dot of black hair, each red tunic, each yellow cloak, helped to make a pattern that was more intricate than any woven textile that came from Arabia. And far behind them, in the distance, the piercing blue of the sea made a border.

My carpet! My people! My Alexandria—city like no other on earth, a variegated, magnificent whole, a new heaven, a new kingdom. The first of the vision Antony and I had for our empire—or, rather, that
I
had and that Antony understood.

Now we saw them; a murmur ran through the air. The shields of the soldiers were glinting, catching the sun, as if they were signaling. The drums and flutes kept rhythm with their marching, the sound of their hobnailed sandals ringing on the paved street.

First came the Macedonian Household Troops, my own traditional bodyguard. They, and they alone, had the letter C on their shields, as they always had. The two Roman legions marching after them had no such thing—regardless of the lies told later! They carried only their usual round, leather-covered shields that said nothing whatever on them.

Behind them followed Antony in a gold chariot drawn by four white horses, as in a Roman Triumph. But instead of the purple general’s cloak, the laurel wreath, and the scepter, Antony’s head was entwined with the ivy, he wore a golden robe—blinding to look upon—and carried the wand of Dionysus. It was as Dionysus that he presented his spoils to Isis.

His face was shining, tanned, and he was grinning as he acknowledged the shouts rising on all sides of him. I knew how thirsty he was for them, what balm they were to him. He had always been a loyal lieutenant, carrying out missions for others with courage and flair, but the cheers had never been bestowed on him alone. Now they were, and I wished I could magnify them until all the buildings rang like a bell, deafening us.

Marching behind Antony’s chariot, straight and proud in spite of the heavy chains, swayed King Artavasdes and his queen, as well as several of his children. They were covered with dust, hot and weary from the long walk amid the jeers and hostility. That man! His scented ringlets were no longer dressed and curled, but dull and drooping. And where were his rings now? His only jewelry were the silver manacles that adorned his wrists and ankles. And all the oily compliments and poetry that had greased his treachery!

I glared at him. Because of him, forty-two thousand men had lost their lives. Even if he were butchered, cut into forty-two thousand pieces himself, it could not repay them. One death could never balance all the deaths he had caused.

He stood at the foot of the steps, waiting, while the rest of the lengthy procession continued, then took their places in the open ground around the temple. A host of wretched Armenian prisoners were paraded past, common people and slaves who had been captured. Next came a long train of carts laden with booty. Armenia was—had been!—wealthy in gold. No more. It was all on the wagons.

The wagons. How many of them were there? Twenty? Thirty? But how many wagons had been in the Roman baggage train? Three hundred? Even thirty wagons loaded with gold could not compensate for the loss of those crucial support wagons. After the fact, nothing ever seems to compensate. Killing the assassins was necessary, but it did not undo Caesar’s murder. Nor did this undo the devastation caused by the despicable Artavasdes.

The client kings had all sent representatives, along with golden crowns for the victor—so Cappadocia, Pontus, Lycia, Galatia, Paphlagonia, Thrace, Mauretania, Judaea, Commagene, all were there, wearing their distinctive national dress.

Another Roman legion, Gallic cavalry, then an Egyptian contingent, mounted bowmen from Media, light cavalry from Pontus, along with the musicians, brought up the rear and halted.

Antony dismounted, his golden cloak swirling out behind him. He walked slowly over to Artavasdes, then past him, and began ascending the steps of the temple to those of us waiting for him. Roman soldiers prodded Artavasdes to follow, and he began heaving his feet up the steps, dragging the chains.

The sun glinted off Antony’s head, showing the thick, still-dark hair curling around the ivy wreath, healthy brown against the green. He was smiling, clearly enjoying every moment of this day.

“Queen of Egypt, Daughter of Isis, Friend and Ally of Rome,” he shouted, his voice—so famed for outdoor oratory—ringing out and filling the entire area, as rich to the ears as his gold cloak was to the eyes. “I present to you today this most noble prisoner, a king who now regrets his treachery and wishes to salute you.”

The soldiers nudged Artavasdes forward with their spears, and he moved one step upward. His liquid dark eyes met mine.

He was supposed to fall on his knees and do obeisance—or, at the very least, greet me by all my titles, then beg forgiveness for his offense. Instead he clamped his mouth shut.

“Salute the Queen, Her Most Noble Majesty, Pharaoh of Egypt and all its lands and territories.”

His mouth remained closed, his head up, his shoulders squared.

“King Artavasdes,” said Antony, “you must acknowledge the Queen, who owns your very life at this point, as do I.” His voice had hardened.

Still the Armenian monarch stood there, mute by defiance.

“Speak!” commanded Antony.

The soldiers withdrew their short daggers and held them under Artavasdes’ ribs. I could see the indentation in his tunic. One move from him and the dagger points would pierce the fabric. Even his breathing was going to leave a prick-mark.

“Greetings, Cleopatra,” he said loudly.

There was a communal gasp. To call me by my personal name, no title, in a public ceremony—he, an enemy! Truly, the man was insolent—proud and foolish—past reason. It was fitting he was off his throne; Armenia deserved better.

“Greetings, Cleopatra,” he repeated, even louder. He managed to draw out the syllables until the word sounded as long as the doomed baggage train.

“Greetings, conquered traitor,” I answered. I would go him one better and not even use his name; reduce him to a
thing
.

I nodded, and Antony signaled for him to be taken away. The two soldiers complied, lifting him up by the shoulders and carrying him, his legs stiff, down the steps.

Did he think, since prisoners were traditionally executed immediately following a Triumph, that these would be remembered as his last words? Make him famous?

Antony now turned to enter the temple and make sacrifice to Serapis. The priests surrounding us on the steps, and the priestesses, shook their sistrums, and the hissing rattles filled the air. Antony disappeared into the dark recesses of the temple, his gold cloak swallowed up in the gloom that filled the temple even on a bright day.

Afterward followed feasts for the people of Alexandria; as in Rome, tables were set up all over the city, and the public invited to help themselves to meat, cakes, and endless wine, all at the palace’s expense. Antony went out among his soldiers and presided over the tables of legionaries, then betook himself to roaming throughout the city, dropping in on celebrants, joining in their revelry. Would Dionysus have done less?

But I remained in the palace, enjoying the feast-tables set up on our grounds. All my household servants, officers, and friends were wandering under the lighted trees, drinking, singing—albeit more decorously than the songs filling the streets of Alexandria.

It was growing light before Antony returned, not tired or staggering but exhilarated. His cloak was gone and his fine tunic wrinkled and sweat-stained; around his neck were garlands of flowers and grass necklaces. He had been hailed, saluted, feasted, and adored, and he was glowing with it, as rosy as the color coming up in the east. He ran across the grass and swept me up in his arms like the young cavalry officer that he still was inside, swung me around, my feet flying off the ground. It made me dizzy, but he roared with laughter.

“Come!” He took my hand and made me run up the steps to the Temple of Isis, which stood near the open sea. “Let us watch the dawn come up from here. This day is not over until the sun rises anew.”