The Memoirs of Cleopatra (137 page)

“Someone who shouldn’t have been!” I said. “Antony has violated every rule of protocol and had Octavian’s messenger whipped!”

Even Olympos looked shocked. “No!” Then, “What did he do to deserve it?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing, but…be young and on the stronger side, and carry himself accordingly.” That was the truth of it.

“Ah.” Olympos shook his head. “It is most unlike Antony. These are dark days for him.” Then he said briskly, “I’ll make it up right away. I think for raw skin like that, a compound of roasted natron, vinegar, honey, and bile…”

While he was gone, I busied myself composing some nonsense of a note for Thyrsus to take to Octavian, something I could sign with my royal seal. It did not matter what it said, as long as it promised nothing, but gave him something to open.

“Most noble Oct—” No, not that name…“Young Caesar, I long to lay all my treasure at your feet in exchange for your solemn promise that you will confirm my son on the throne of Egypt….” Nothing new, but it was words.

Holding the precious jar of ointment in my hands and hidden under the shadow of a voluminous hooded mantle, I passed silently down into the military quarters adjoining the palace, where Thyrsus was being held.

He was slumped on a bench, his thick hair matted with sweat, his head down between his knees. In the torchlight I could see the welts on his back, red ruts like miniature cart tracks. Little scraps of skin were torn and hanging on each side. He was groaning and shivering—no longer the proud young envoy.

I stood before him and pulled back my hood. His eyes had traveled up from the sandals that were no soldier’s, all the way to my face, and his shock at seeing me was evident. But he did not rise; perhaps he felt that all rules had gone by the board now.

“I cannot erase the stripes from your back,” I said, “although I wish I had that power. But I can give you this—to help heal them.” If only it had the power to make them disappear, so Octavian wouldn’t see them. But that was beyond even Olympos’s skill.

Before he could respond, I went behind him and began spreading the ointment on his wounds, touching them as lightly as possible. Still he flinched at it, because they were deep and raw.

How many were there? I counted some eight or so—how many would there have been if I had not stopped it?

“We must ask your pardon,” I said quietly.

Now at last he spoke. “A queen ask pardon of a freedman?” He was boiling angry.

“When the freedman has been wronged, yes,” I said. “This should not have happened. If it lies within your gift, please sponge it from your memory. Not everyone has the greatness of mind to do so, however, and I cannot expect it.” I continued smoothing the ointment on his back. He
had
been cruelly treated. “We do not deserve it.”

Those last words seemed to melt him. He turned his head and said, “
He
does not, but I would forgive you anything.” Then he laughed, a very small laugh. “They told me that you are both dangerous to know and able to make the knowing worth the danger.” He winced as I touched a deep cut. “Now I see what they meant.”

“Who said that?” I must know.

“Almost everyone in my camp. And—Octavian himself.”

“Tell him, then, that I have taught him the truth of the first part of the sentence, and would be willing to proceed to the second. If…well, he can read it in this note I have brought for him.”

O Isis! Was I really doing this? Spreading salve on the wounds of a freedman, giving coy hints to my utmost enemy? But I had promised to do anything for Egypt….

“What is in it?” he asked.

“Ah. That is for the eyes of Octav—for the Imperator alone.” I paused. “I have brought you a cloak to replace the one ripped from your back. Take it, and when you see it, try to remember not what the soldiers gave you but what I did.” I pulled it out of its bag and spread it out across his shoulders. It was of the finest, softest wool of Miletus, and his bleeding back would stain it, but he needed some covering to make the journey and protect him from road dust. I also hoped it would serve as some visible reminder of my secret visit to him. I would not be so obvious as to give him jewels.

It was time to take them out and reread them—the letters from Caesar. After my son had read them, we had divided them. He was to take half with him wherever he went, as his talisman and keepsake. I was to keep the rest, to sustain me and perhaps soften Octavian’s revenge by reminding him of the esteem in which his “father” had held me.

I made sure I was alone, and unlikely to be disturbed. In a way I dreaded opening them and reading them, because words written by the departed take on entirely different meanings. They seem to whisper secret messages or exhortations that the living person might not have meant. I knew that, in my present circumstances, the words of Caesar would loom portentously.

I sought my most padded and luxurious couch before placing the small box to one side of me and opening the lid. Inside lay the letters—so few, really. Caesar had had so much official correspondence, not to mention his war reports, that he could spare little time for personal letters. And he had been cautious about committing much in writing. I remembered how eagerly I had awaited his letters after he first left Egypt, how deserted and bereft I had felt. And then the first one—I opened it slowly—had been so impersonal.

The paper was brittle now and little flakes fell off when I spread it out. The ink was faded; it was almost twenty years since it had been written. The smell of time rose from the surface.

That was all. But yes, the words did mean something different now. In order for my son to have a “name great in the annals of history” he would have to survive Octavian, which I was now bending all efforts to assure.

And the problems with which Caesar was beset in Rome—they were never solved, and caused his death. He was always hedged about with crises, as I was now. Even the greatest can be brought down by them, no matter how clever or how hard he struggles. There is not always a triumphant ending for the bravest. How could I succeed where Caesar had failed?

And the invitation to Rome—“leave for a little while and come to Rome.” Soon Octavian would issue an similar invitation, but it was one I would not accept.

I put it aside and opened another.

Now that also meant something beyond what he had written in that time and place. The final outcome was all that mattered. In this hour of last reckoning, he was reminding me of that.

But even when you win, final victory may not be yours. Caesar had won all those land battles, only to yield up his life at the hands of his own countrymen. And then, later, others of his countrymen had elevated him to godhood. First victory, then defeat, then greater victory…the wheel keeps turning, and we cannot always live to see where it will finally come to rest.

Caesar, you have gone before me, I spoke silently to him. I will try to follow as best I can, unconquered to the last. And as you have shown, there is a way to triumph beyond the immediate circumstances of one’s death. Even the death itself can be used to further one’s life.

But we have to go into it unknowing the final accounting….

I returned the letters to the box, on top of the few others still there. Perhaps I would read them later. I rested my hand on them, drawing strength just from their stubborn physical survival. Those private little works of his hand had not been destroyed in the great funeral pyre. What remains behind to testify for us can be surprising.

“Madam.” There was a gentle knock, and the sound of Charmian’s voice.

I had thought to be undisturbed. But I had finished with the reading. “Yes?”

“It is Epaphroditus, madam. Shall I admit him?”

“Let him enter.”

Back I must come to the particulars of life.

Epaphroditus swept in, two pouches under his arms. “Your Majesty.” He bowed quickly, to get it over with. “I have here the inventories you asked me to make, along with the treasury figures.” He held up one pouch.

I needed to know exactly what we would be handing over to Octavian—or trying to save. “Thank you.” I reached in for the papers, but I could feel how thick they were. “Summarize them for me,” I said. I swung my legs down from the couch and indicated seats for us at the work table. I placed the pouch there and withdrew its contents.

He unrolled one scroll and said, “Here are the final tallies.” He stabbed a finger at a column of figures. “I regret to say that Egypt’s finances are very healthy. We have had the best harvest in years, with this year’s Nile rise promising to repeat the bounty. The losses of Actium have been recouped, and even the destruction of the fleet en route to the Red Sea has been covered.”

“I regret it, too. I wish Octavian would stumble upon empty granaries and a depleted treasury.” I looked at him. “You have done well, old friend. You have served me faithfully, against your own inclination, all these years. After today you must resign and lose yourself among your people again. Be nowhere near the palace when the end comes. Leave your reports here, and take my thanks as your farewell.”

He looked deeply unhappy. “It seems an ungrateful thing to do.”

“Not if I command it,” I said. “I want as few to perish with this doomed regime as possible. In that way we triumph over the Romans. There is only one thing more: I would like a falsified report that I can submit to Octavian that leaves out portions of the wealth. I will hide some assets so that they may be available later to my children. I think”—I looked at the rows of figures—“there will be enough left to satisfy Octavian. He will not suspect the missing portions.”

Epaphroditus reached out and covered my hand with one of his. “I cannot bear to hear you talk that way. So resigned to the worst. So
accepting
that it is all over.”

“We must hope for the best, while preparing for the worst. I never forget, not even for an instant, that if Octavian were to die in battle—and it does not have to be a big battle, for arrows fly equally fast in a minor skirmish—everything would change in that moment. Rome would be leaderless. Antony would suddenly be the man of the hour. All these preparations would be a mockery. But…” I knew it
could
happen, but I could not rely on it.

“I have brought something else, which I will leave with you,” he said, putting the second pouch down. “Some writings from my people which you have professed to find comforting.”

“So they have writings covering even this situation?” I said with a slight laugh. “You come from a remarkable people.”

“I have marked out the passages I think will speak to you,” he said.

“Thank you, dear friend.” I stood up and took his hands. I wondered if I would ever see him again. This long, slow withdrawal of the tide was painful. More and more of the shore was left behind, forcibly abandoned.

In the late afternoon I opened his second pouch, curious to see what it was he had collected for me. Koheleth, or Ecclesiastes, it was called. It looked like verses of poetry, and certain passages had been selected for my attention. Nonetheless I began at the beginning, for it told a story.

The writer had pursued knowledge, riches, pleasures, and great works, and found them all wanting, all vanities.

Like Caesar in the Senate, like us waiting now in Alexandria.
Time and chance happeneth to them all
.

Yet what could I do besides wait, and arm myself?

The late afternoon sun was slanting in the windows, making long diagonal bars of light in the air. I suddenly felt very alone, manning the ramparts by myself. Caesar dead, Caesarion gone, my supporters sent away to safety, Antony to fight no more. And here I stood, peering out over the walls and bracing myself for the assault.

The end of the day. The sun sloping down, Octavian on his way. With the luxury of privacy, I wept for all that the sun was setting on.

Better is the end of a thing than the beginning thereof
. No, never. The Preacher was wrong.

Antony found me sitting alone in the room, grown quite dark now. The sun had sunk, the purple twilight had come and gone, and now night enveloped me.

“What’s this?” he cried. “No lamps? What’s the matter?” He rushed off to light one and bring it. He waved it in front of my face.

“Are you all right?” He looked anxiously into my eyes.

“Yes,” I said. “I was just sitting here and—thinking.”

“Deep thoughts, that kept you from lighting a lamp.”

“It was peaceful.” And it had been. Acceptance always brings peace—after the first wild mourning.

“What’s this?” He reached out and took the scroll, unrolled around me like a long ribbon.

“Something Ephaphroditus brought, along with his reports.”

“Hmm.” Antony lit more lamps, until the chamber was bright. Then he held up the scroll and started reading. “Poetry in one hand, figures in the other. Strange man, Epaphroditus.” His eyes scanned the verses rapidly. “Whoever wrote this was in a bad way,” he said, shaking his head. “Poor devil.”

The poor devil is us, I wanted to say. Don’t you recognize us there?

“Hmm. Hmm. Well, he’s right about
this
,” said Antony.

“About what?”

“Listen to this. The poet says,

“He speaks true in that. It’s all we can do.” He had found those happy verses in the writing, while I had overlooked them. How like him. He put the scroll down and reached out for my hands, pulling me up to my feet, holding me against him. He fell silent, just letting us lean together.

There were two of us on the ramparts after all, one to arm, the other to comfort, taking turns. That was the depth and surety of love, a love that does not desert.

“Now, my dearest, I think we need a little wine—as the Preacher recommends,” he finally said, leaving me to locate a pitcher and cups.

“For a merry heart?” I asked.

“Indeed so,” he said, flourishing the cups.

Antony: always able to seize joy across the ordinary, across suffering. That was his magic, still undimmed.