The Memoirs of Cleopatra (111 page)

“Ah…the ruler-of-the-world business again. I knew it was bound to come up.” He heaved himself up on his elbows and gave a half-smile. “Well, I am ready. Tell me of my high destiny.” He reached out and took his goblet, peering into its depths. He sloshed some more wine into it and drank it down.

“Antony, you drink too much.” There, I had said it.

He laid his hand over his heart. “You wound me,” he said, looking stricken.

“It is true. It is not—not good for you.” What I wanted to say was that when he was younger it had not affected him, but now…

I expected him to argue, but he did not. “I know,” he said. But that did not stop him from filling his cup again. “But I like the way it sets my mind free…lets it roam where it will…and sometimes it shows me wisdom, or a new way.” He swallowed it down. “And sometimes it just puts me to sleep,” he admitted. He held out the goblet. “Farewell, fair friend—since Cleopatra will have it so.” He put it down ceremoniously, carefully. “And to think that we are in a region with the world’s best wines nearby. Lesbos and your sweet nectar, Chios with your magic grape, you must come no more!”

“Why must you go to extremes?” I asked. “You do not have to banish it from your life altogether. Just moderate it.”

Now he spoke altogether seriously. “There are some of us with a temperament that precludes moderation. We must have a total embrace, or a total forsaking.” He stood up. He was not unsteady, and his words were clear. “Had I not been such a man, I would not be here now, with you. I would have played with you, enjoyed our time together, but never pledged myself. That would have made Rome happy. Rome—which was all too pleased to see you as my mistress, but horrified to see you as my wife. I spit on such conventions.”

“Why then, oh, why, do you then ache for their approval? If you do not approve of
them
, why should they approve of you?” Why should we wish those we do not respect to respect us?

“I do not know,” he said. “In Rome, we reverence our mothers above all others. And for good or ill, Rome is my mother.”

By now I had risen from the table, too, and he embraced me, folding me close to him. I leaned against him, wishing there was something I could do to lessen his pain. It was clear he must displease his mother, Mother
Roma
, at least the Rome as she now was. But mothers had a way of rejoicing in the feats of wayward sons, if they were only successful.

“You underestimate the love of a mother,” I finally said. “She will never abandon you. Rome will welcome you. Rome is not the Senate, nor is she Octavian. You are as Roman as either of them. And when you prevail, and return victorious to the hills of Rome—”

“Ah, that again.” he sighed. “It always comes to that.”

“Yes, it comes to armies,” I said. “Rome has always been about armies. The history of Rome is the story of her armies.”

Arms about each other’s waists, we wove our way slowly to bed, picking our steps carefully. My reluctant Imperator, my jolly Dionysus, quiet now, subdued…he seemed to wish only to sleep. The weight of what he must do pressed down on him, and he had sought the wine in order to be free. And I had spoiled it, ruined his escape.

But as he lay silent beside me, I felt his arm tighten underneath my head. His fingers reached out and began to play with my hair. It made my skin tingle.

“A woman’s hair…” he began, speaking to himself. “Most beautiful of all her jewels.”

I lay silent, my eyes closed. Let him do what he wished. I loved him so—I only wished the best for him. Why could he not understand that?

“My Queen,” he finally said. “I have never really grown used to having a queen in my bed.”

And I had never grown used to having a hearty mortal in mine.

“Then we are forever new to one another,” I whispered. “May it remain so.” And I kissed him in such a way that he knew how greatly I prized and desired him.

He did not disappoint me in his response.

We got up the idea of an excursion to Pergamon.

“I’ll present it all there,” said Antony. “I’ll explain my plan on the way. They will be more receptive if we are on an outing.”

I was dubious. “I will enjoy the theater, but why must you pander to them in that way? You act like a father who is afraid of his children. They can listen well enough in Ephesus.”

“No, I must sweeten the pill.”

The pill consisted of the Donations of Alexandria, all wrapped up in his Armenian conquests. A letter to the Senate, outlining both, would be dispatched by the new year. They would rejoice in the new province, while approving the depositions of territory—so the theory went.

“Very well.” I knew better than to argue with him. He seemed so dead certain that he knew his Romans.

Pergamon was over eighty miles away. The Roman commanders were only too eager to go, as if they needed a guide. I kept forgetting how unsure of themselves they were in this regard. At some deep level they were afraid of the Greek world—afraid of being seen as bumpkins, barbarians, even though they owned the territory.

Pergamon had started the fad of willing one’s kingdom to the Romans. Attalus III had done so, and then my great-granduncle Ptolemy Apion in Cyrene had followed suit. At one point, even Egypt itself had been willed to Rome, by my granduncle Ptolemy X. (Luckily Rome ignored the bequest, as there was a question of his basic right to the throne.) Perhaps they were but bowing to the inevitable. But it did not make them popular with their subjects.

Pergamon had been a Roman province for a hundred years now. When Alexander’s three generals—Antigonas the One-Eyed, Seleucus, and Ptolemy—had scrambled for territory, Asia had fallen to Seleucus. But he had proved unable to keep his kingdom from fragmenting, and Pergamon had broken away.

Pergamon—home of the poison garden of Attalus III, home of parchment, and home of the greatest library outside of Alexandria. She had tried, but never quite equaled, us Ptolemies in Egypt. And then, with a great sigh, like that of a camel lying down with its burdens, she had given up and bequeathed them to Rome. Now she stood, shorn of her power, awaiting our arrival.

We approached, seeing the flat plain and the elevated city from afar. What a commanding site! The acropolis reared itself a thousand feet above the plain, gleaming white from a distance. We reined our horses and looked at it.

Our rival in intellectual status, was all I could think. Once Alexandria and Pergamon had competed for the glory of being the true artistic and intellectual daughter of Athens. But politics, power, armies had had other plans for Pergamon. And what would have become of Alexandria, had not Caesar and Antony been men—and I a woman? O most fortunate, to be born in the right shape and at the right time! I silently thanked Isis. Egypt was secure, as Pergamon could never be.

“Fabled city,” said Sosius. “I am always thankful to behold it.”

“If you must be on land, I suppose Pergamon is good enough,” snorted Ahenobarbus.

As we came to the city, we rode past the justly famous medical center of Asclepion with its sacred spring, therapeutic vaulted tunnel, and hospital for dream interpretation, and toiled our way up the long road that wound its way up the terraced side of the mountain, past the gymnasions, past the baths, past Hera’s holy place, past the lower agora, and then finally past the upper agora—and to the acropolis itself. Here were the very guarded inner selves of Pergamon: her library, her theater, her altar of Zeus, her royal palaces.

The city fathers were waiting—oh, so anxiously—to escort us into the former royal palace, now a Roman government building. A feast awaited to refresh us from the three-day journey. The tables seemed to sag from the weight of the gold vessels and heaps of food, except that iron and marble do not sag. Tall silver pitchers were filled with the finest wine from the nearby island of Lesbos, ready to drown all thirst.

There were more than twenty in our party—not only Sosius and Ahenobarbus, Consuls-to-be, but Dellius and Plancus as well as city magistrates from both Ephesus and Pergamon. Their wives had joined us, which gave the occasion a lighthearted social air. Perhaps Antony had been right to wrap his serious political business in this benign cover.

From my place, several feet away, I saw him providing himself with several cups of wine in quick succession—no moderation here! He was laughing and acting his effusive best. I strained my ears to hear what he was saying, and I studied the expressions of Sosius and Ahenobarbus as well as I could.

There was talk about Sosius’s Triumph in Rome; he had celebrated one just a year ago, commemorating his victory in driving the Parthians out of Jerusalem for Herod. Now he had returned to these regions, but I could not help thinking that we would have been better served by his remaining in Rome. We needed all the partisans there that we could get, and a popular war hero like Sosius was good to have, if only to balance Agrippa. But he seemed happiest here, where he had more power, like many Romans who were on the “Asia circuit.” He was a man with even features and a steady temperament, in contrast to the gruff, volatile Ahenobarbus.

Now they were both leaning forward to listen intently to Antony, who (I could see plainly) had let loose his famous charm. He smiled; he gestured; he laughed, throwing his head back; he nudged them confidentially. But they remained restrained: a bad sign.

I could overhear only a few words from Antony, like “new year” and “self-evident” and “well-deserved.” Ahenobarbus was frowning, and—

“So we are to see a comedy this afternoon?”

Curses! Dellius, next to me, wanted to have a conversation. Now I would have to turn away from Antony.

“Yes,” I said. “It is Menander’s
Girl from Samos
. The day is too fair to stain it with death and weeping, even make-believe versions.”

I could just make out the words “I can rely…” from Antony’s place when Dellius replied, “We think alike, fair Queen.” He was smiling at me as if he meant something more.

“In that we both like comedies?” I said innocently. “Menander was a favorite of Caesar’s.” That had always surprised me, but it must have offered him escape from his burdens, just as the wine did for Antony.

“Comedy is not a thing I associate with Caesar,” Dellius said.

Now I could see Sosius and Ahenobarbus helping themselves to the sliced spiced eggs and olives, smiling broadly. Perhaps it had all gone smoothly. Antony was pouring out more wine, beaming. Yes. It had obviously gone well.

“Most gracious Majesty,” said the Pergamene official on my other side, “is this your first visit here?”

“Yes,” I said. “Though I have always longed to see the legendary city. My physician would be particularly interested in the Asclepion, and in Attalus’s garden—which probably no longer exists.”

“A small part of it does, madam, and I would be honored to show it to you. It is near the…the library.”

Ah yes. The library. This was a delicate matter. Had scrolls already been removed? Were empty places on the shelves glaring at library patrons? But if he did not mention it, neither would I. That is diplomacy at its most basic.

“I have heard of the statue of Athena there,” I said. At least that was left. I did not need another Athena statue in Alexandria.

In midafternoon one party went to visit the Athena sanctuary and the Altar of Zeus, while others of us were taken to Attalus’s garden and the library. The famous garden of poisonous plants was much smaller than Olympos’s, and it was guarded by soldiers—as much for show as anything else, I suspected. Each bed of plants was marked and labeled, and I wondered what was unique to this particular spot. Olympos would know, of course. I wished he were here.

“Some of it, alas, has died out,” my host said. “Even poison has its life span.” He led us along the pathways, cautioning us not to brush against any of the stalks or leaves. “And here, on this side, are the plants used as antidotes.”

“Do they work?” Dellius had remained steadfastly by my side.

“Some of them,” the guide said. “Attalus used to administer the poisons to condemned criminals and then give them the presumed antidote. Some of the men lived!”

The library, a stern marble building, was much smaller than ours in Alexandria. I wondered how two hundred thousand scrolls could even be stored here. True to his word, the man took us in and showed us the reading room and the famous statue. I could see for myself that many of the scroll-sockets were empty; they looked forlornly out at the few readers in the main room.

A mighty wind was whistling as we walked around the acropolis; it was so high that it must have wind all year long, and I imagined that in the winter it must be very cold. The trees were bending and swaying, their branches whipping, and my stole streamed out behind me, pulling at me like a sail.

It was nearly time for the performance, and Antony’s group met us on the grounds of the Athena temple overlooking the theater. I could hear them before they came into sight; their noise shattered the quiet and pierced the very wind.

“Hail! Hail!” Antony was marching in, holding a thyrsus made from a pine branch, whipping it about. Even from here I could see that he was exuberant—and drunk. Beside him, his party were laughing and capering—had he gotten them drunk, too, or were they just humoring him?

“The theater calls!” he said, gathering everyone about him, a merry shepherd with his flock. “Let us descend!”

As we rounded the two-story stoa surrounding the temple, with its bronze statues of defeated Gauls in the niches, I gasped to see the theater plunging down to the middle level of the city. Straight down it went, or so it looked. It was the steepest hillside I had ever seen used for seating; it looked almost perpendicular. Far below us lay the stage; it would be a free fall from the top.

Antony was teetering on the edge—was he joking or not? It looked over a hundred feet to the bottom. I hurried over to him and clutched his arm to try to steady him. But he shook me off, waving his wand at me in teasing admonition. Far below us a crowd was streaming into the theater and filling the seats. At the very bottom in the front row was the king’s box, fashioned of marble, where we would sit—if we could ever reach it. Perhaps it would be best to descend on the path and approach from the bottom. But when I said so, Antony just laughed—too loudly.

“What, shall the god not descend from his heights?” And he boldly stepped down onto the uppermost tier of seats, where he stood swaying. Then he stepped down to the next level. Then he jumped, feet together, onto the next. “Come!” He turned and gestured to us, looking backward. At the same time he stepped back, caught his foot in his toga, and spun over and over down the stairs, a blur of white.

It happened so quickly it was hard to follow. The steep angle and his weight combined to accelerate his fall. Dellius was off like a bowshot after him, but nothing could match the speed of a free fall. Then, suddenly, he shot his arm out and grasped the corner of a seat, where the momentum spun him around and slammed his back against the stall. It took great strength in his arm to act as a pivot in swinging him around like that in mid-fall, sending him in the opposite direction. I heard a loud crack as he hit the stone seat—had he smashed his head? All I could see was a mound of clothes. I hurried down the stairs sideways as if they were a ladder, but Dellius had already reached him. Behind me came the others.

Then, slowly, like a turtle emerging from its shell, Antony’s head stuck out of his toga and he looked around, dazed. He was still grasping the corner of the seat with his large hand, and only then let it go, leaving a bloody print on it. He shook his hand up and down as if it were numb.

Dellius was speaking to him, bending down, and then Antony got up. He seemed unhurt. The voluminous toga that had been his undoing in tripping him had also served to muffle his fall.

“A fitting beginning for a comedy!” he said heartily, to assure everyone he was all right. Nervous laughter broke out from the group.

I took his bloody hand in mine and went slowly down the steps with him until we reached the royal box. I could not trust myself to speak. I was deeply angry at him, but the fright I had felt in seeing him fall had wiped it out.

When we were seated, he said contritely, “I am sorry.”

When I did not reply, he added, “It won’t happen again.”

My hand was slippery with blood from holding his.

Finally I said, “Perhaps on your way out you should stop by the temple of Dionysus at the far end of the stage and give him thanks for saving you.”

The actors, belonging to the theatrical guild of Dionysus, came trooping out with their masks, and the comedy began. But I paid scant attention to it.

That night, Antony’s cuts and bruises having been cleaned and treated, he said, “Togas are lethal.” He laughed. “I caught my foot—”

“Antony,” I said quietly, “it wasn’t the toga.”

We were lying side by side in the bedroom in the old palace. He had trouble finding a comfortable position.

“Everything hurts,” he admitted. The wine had long since worn off, and he was dead sober. “Just when I could use it to ease the pain,” he said, then quickly added, “I am just joking. I think I learned my lesson today. You were right in what you said before. More moderation is called for.” He sighed. “As I said then, moderation is something that does not come easily to me.”