The Memoirs of Cleopatra (14 page)

And what did he plan to do about it? “It grieves me as well,” I said, choosing my words carefully. As I spoke I could taste fine sand in my mouth. It hung suspended in the air, like lingering smoke. “Treachery is everywhere, preventing justice. Pompey was betrayed, as I have been. And by the same people!”

“Caesar will hear the case, and decide.”

“Caesar has not, perchance, already decided? The words of the little King must sound sweet in his ear.”

“He wishes to hear your words as well. He suspects they will be sweeter.”

I stiffened. What exactly did that mean? Bribes? Ceding part of Egypt to Rome?

“He wishes us to bargain with him? Like merchants in the bazaar?”

Cornelius looked truly insulted. “Caesar is more intelligent than that. And in order to bargain, you must have goods you can withhold. Such is not the case with you and Caesar.”

He dared—! But he spoke the truth. Caesar was master of the world and could take what he liked. No need to bargain. But if he could be persuaded…that was a different matter, altogether different….

“Caesar requests that you come to Alexandria and meet with him and Ptolemy face-to-face.”

“Will he give me safe conduct?” I asked. “I would need to pass through the lines of Achillas’s army.”

Cornelius looked apologetic. “He has no means of doing that. He has no soldiers to spare.”

“They will never let me pass.”

“But perhaps if I spoke to them—”

“You may speak, but they will answer no. Or, saying yes, they will take me captive when I attempt to go through.”

He looked confused, as though he had not considered this suspension of courtesy.

“This is Egypt,” I said, “home to treachery. But return to Caesar, and tell him that I will try to arrange a meeting with him.”

We spent the next two days digging out the mess left by the sandstorm. In spite of our efforts, sand had found its way into all the stores of food and into the jars of water and wine. Every article of clothing was dusted with sand, so that the garments were scratchy when we put them on. Our skin was chafed and raw by the end of the day. And then we lay down on mattresses that were just as scratchy.

My mind was constantly working on the problem of how to get to Alexandria. Since I could not enter openly, I would have to be disguised. And I needed to do more than just get into Alexandria proper; I also needed to gain entrance to the palace where Caesar was staying. That would be impossible.

I thought of various schemes. Enter by a sewer? That was repulsive and dangerous. Pretend to be a maidservant? Too obvious. Put on a bearskin and amble in with a keeper? What if they set the dogs on me? What if they tried to get me to perform and stand upright? Or could I be smuggled in in a crate of food? But that still would not get me into Caesar’s chamber. There would be guards at his door.

And then, as I lay on my bed, looking idly at the large patterned carpet that served as the floor of the tent, the idea came to me.

“Too dangerous,” said Iras. “And not fitting for a queen.”

“That is why no one will suspect it,” I insisted.

“You might suffocate,” said Mardian.

“Or be bitten by fleas,” said Olympos, as a joke. “That’s by far the greatest hazard. And how would Caesar respond to a queen covered with flea bites rolling out of a dusty rug?”

“Perhaps he would kiss the flea bites away,” said Iras, raising one eyebrow.

I attempted to smile. But the truth was, that was the most intimidating aspect of the plan to me. “You will give me an ointment to prevent them,” I said to Olympos.

“What if Caesar cries out, and his guards rush in and stab you?” asked Mardian.

“He will not. All reports say he always keeps his head in an unexpected situation. He is the least likely of all men to cry out in alarm.”

“You deceive yourself. He will assume it is an assassin. It is the most likely thing, after all.”

“I will have to trust to the gods, then,” I said firmly. “It is all in their hands.”

And that was true. There was absolutely nothing I could do to predict Caesar’s reaction or to prevent him from acting exactly as he pleased at that moment, even though my fate depended on it.

It was then, Isis, that I knew I trusted you. It is only when our fate hangs in the balance, when our very life depends on something, that we see whether or not we trust that the rope to which we are clinging will support us. If we do not, then we will not let go of the ledge and swing on it with our full weight.

I trusted you, and you made good that trust, Isis. All hail to thee!

It was a simple enough matter to find a willing, brave man to ferry me to Alexandria. He was already at hand—Apollodoros, a merchant of Sicily who had supplied us with rugs and tents. But as to what I might be called on to do once I was there—ah, that was a different thing. It called for an expertise I was entirely lacking.

Caesar had only one weakness, indeed, only one aspect that seemed human in the midst of all his superhuman attributes. The gods are kind: They always leave some gap in us through which we can approach one another as equals. Caesar was partial to love affairs—or, to be more painfully honest, to sex affairs.

The gods can also be cruel, for this was the one area where I could
not
hope to interest him. Had it been horsemanship—Caesar was reputed to be able to ride at a full gallop with his hands behind his back—I could have won his admiration. Had it been languages, I could have stunned him with my knowledge of eight—whereas he had only two, Greek and Latin, at his command. Had it been riches, my personal fortune and the palace treasures would have left him speechless. Had it been ancestry, I came from the oldest royal house in the world, whereas he was of ancient patrician, but still citizen, lineage.

But love! Sex! He had been with men and women of all ages and types, and had acquired an expertise that marked him out even among his peers. Whereas I—I was a virgin, and knew nothing of the refinements or even the fundamentals of lovemaking, beyond what I had read in poetry. My closest friend was a eunuch! I felt helpless at the thought of facing Caesar.

And then the question: Would I even be willing to give myself to him? No one had ever touched me in an intimate way. Could I allow a stranger to do so?

I reminded myself of what was at stake: Alexandria, and Egypt. I pictured the Nile flowing in its flat green ribbon past the palm-lined banks. The granite obelisks reaching toward the sun. The bright, shifting sands under the aching blue sky. The dark, seated statues of ancient Pharaohs. Waiting. Yes. For Egypt I could do anything. Even give myself to Caesar.

I shook my head. Then that was decided. Now I must prepare myself. Prepare myself as I always did for any venture. I almost said “prepare my body,” but I knew, instinctively, that in this case it was the mind that needed to be prepared.

It was twilight, and it had been three days since the appearance of Caesar’s messenger. There was no time to waste. I sent for Olympos.

When he arrived, I invited him to sit on the cushions and share a supper with me. Thanks to Apollodoros, the royal tent was furnished beyond the usual Spartan camp bed, folding table, and brazier. I had many hassocks covered in embroidery or tooled leather, brightly woven wool carpets, and curtains shot through with silver threads, which divided the areas of living and privacy. Overhead was suspended a fringed movable canopy that served both to cool us and to shoo away insects.

We lounged on the cushions. We were served on brass platters from Damascus. Iras passed us baskets of plump, juicy figs and sweet dates, followed by the puffy round bread of Ashkelon. We sipped wine, and I waited until Olympos had eaten his first platterful before speaking of the matter at hand. I knew that men are always most approachable after their hunger has been appeased.

“Excellent figs,” said Olympos, holding one up and inspecting it.

“I remembered how partial you were to figs,” I said.

He cocked one eyebrow. “Then you must have a favor to ask me!”

“It is impossible to fool you, Olympos,” I said, using one of my foolproof flatteries. In my experience, there are only two things no one will admit to: having no sense of humor, and being susceptible to flattery. “Well, the truth is I need your medical advice. You are my personal physician, are you not?”

“Yes, and honored to be so.” He waited.

“If I became Caesar’s lover,” I said calmly, “what would that mean, medically, I mean?”

He almost spat out the fig he was so contentedly chewing. I was startled; Olympos was usually impossible to shock or even ruffle. “It would—it would mean you would bear him a bastard!”

“But why? His other mistresses did not. Servilia and Mucia and Postumia and Lollia. And his current wife, Calpurnia, has no children. In fact, none of his wives had children but his first. Perhaps he’s incapable of fathering them.”

“Or has been careful not to, since all those women were married.” He shook his head. “Do you mean to go to the bed of that old libertine? The thought is repulsive!” He looked as if he were my guardian uncle, and ready to punish me.

“Why? If he were that repulsive, he would find himself alone in his bed, which, from what I hear, does not happen!”

“Power makes even the unattractive attractive.” He looked most severe.

“Women went to his bed before he had power,” I insisted.

“He’s old!”

“He’s fifty-two.”

“That’s old!”

“He can swim a mile in his armor. That’s
not
old. Not many young men can do that. Can you?”

“No,” he admitted reluctantly. “So you’re determined to do this?”

“I am prepared to do it if necessary. There is a difference.”

He sat pouting, almost as if he were a jealous lover.

“I need your advice. I have no desire to conceive a bastard. I have heard there are herbs one can take…medicines….”

“Yes,” he muttered. “From Cyrene, there’s the silphion plant to make Cyrenaic juice. And for emergencies, though it isn’t as effective, the pennyroyal, which grows everywhere. I suppose you want me to get you some!”

“Yes, but more than that, I want you to get me something else. We have an army here, and wherever there are armies, there are prostitutes. I wish to speak to the most accomplished of the prostitutes, the queen of the prostitutes, as it were.”

“One queen to another?” He could barely get the words out.

“Yes. There are things I need to know.”

“Well, then,” he finally said, “I think I know exactly the one you seek.”

“Why, Olympos,” I said, “it sounds as if you have sought her already and can give her a personal recommendation!”

He glared at me. “I will send her to you this very night.”

“Caesar will be eternally grateful,” I said, lightly.

Olympos grunted. He was dangerously near to having no sense of humor at that moment.

The oil lamps were guttering low when there was a stirring at the door of the tent. I had given up expecting any visitor, and had put on my bedclothes. By the poor light I had been reading Caesar’s
Commentaries
, hoping to gain an insight into his mind. But it was written in a very impersonal style, and Caesar even called himself by name, as if he were a bystander. Was he really this self-contained? It boded ill for my venture.

Iras poked her head around the curtain. “Your Majesty, a woman is here for you. She says her name is Jehosheba.”

It was obvious to me who Jehosheba was. “Show her in,” I said, sitting up, and pulling on a robe. I was barely covered when Jehosheba, majestic in her calling, stepped into my quarters.

First of all, she was beautiful, like a goddess of abundance. Everything about her was more so: She seemed to have twice as much hair as a normal woman, with color that was twice as rich and deep, and curls that were twice as strong and shiny. Her face and its features were exquisite, her teeth glistened like pearls, and were perfectly matched. As to her body—I could tell, by the way the taut skin moved on her well-molded arms, that it was perfect, too.

“Thank you for coming,” I said. “I like to behold fine works of nature.” And indeed, that was what she seemed to be.

“And I have longed to behold you close-up,” she said, with winning simplicity.

Winning simplicity
, I thought. Mark that down. Remember that.

“I am in need of your help,” I said. “You have had much training in that in which I am but a novice.” I paused. “I mean, the art of making love to a man.”

“I am pleased that you recognize that it is an art,” she said. “Just because anyone may indulge in it does not mean that anyone knows how to. Everyone knows how to walk, but only a few are pleasing to watch while walking.”

“Tell me,” I said. “Tell me everything.”

I cannot recount all she said. Much of it was common sense, of course. Do not take off your clothes in a cold room. Do not allow interruptions. Do not speak of any other matters. Do not, under any circumstances, speak of other women. And never, never ask,
Do you love me?
Second worst is,
Will you come to me again?
Only a fool says those things.

“Each man has a dream image of himself and a woman, and it is your job to answer that dream. Inasmuch as you do, you will satisfy him,” she said. “The challenge is that it is not readily apparent which man has which image in his mind. He may not even know himself. It takes a genius to discover it. All great courtesans are geniuses that way. They pull out what is deepest in the other person and give it a face and form. Such is magic. Forget potions and perfumes. The spellbinding comes in summoning forth this deepest desire and dream, and making it live. And in becoming this, you will find yourself changed as well, and you may come to love him. For there is a possibility he may answer your own deepest secret dream. Always that possibility.”

“Has this ever happened to you?” I asked this creature of inspiring love.

“No,” she admitted. “But there is always the next time!” She threw back her head and laughed, a great, hungry laugh. Even in that, she was beguiling. She indicated my trunks. “Let me see your gowns,” she said. “They are your tools!”