The Memoirs of Cleopatra (32 page)

As we came over the top of a ridge, I suddenly saw a field of pyramids, hundreds of them, like toys. They were smaller than ours, and with much steeper sides. They also did not end in a point, but had a platform on top. Coming closer, I could see that they had portals and small structures attached to their east faces.

“Here!” She pointed to a half-finished one, larger than the rest. She urged her camel forward, and it broke into a run over the glowing sands. At its base she reined it in, and waited for me to catch up.

When I dismounted, she threw her arms out as if to embrace the entire pyramid. “Here is my eternity!” she said proudly.

“Indeed, it is a fine pyramid.” What else could one say about it?

“Let us inspect the prayer chapel,” she said. “I ordered certain wall carvings—”

After the brilliance of the desert, I felt blind once we were inside. I could see absolutely nothing. It was like being dead, like already lying in the bedrock under the pyramid.

She pulled a piece of reflecting metal out of her voluminous leather pouch, and used it to bounce light onto the walls.

“Tsk, tsk!” She bent forward to examine a carving showing herself—I assume it was she—holding a brace of enemies by the hair, ready to plunge a spear into the backs of their shoulders. “The artist has botched my headdress!”

“I am sure it can be remedied,” I said.

“Why do they never get it right?” she fretted.

“Because artists are people, and people make mistakes,” I said.

“You do not think you made a mistake this morning, do you?”

I turned to her. “No. Why do you ask?”

“I was only testing you.” She turned imperiously and made her slow, deliberate way out of the chapel door. More carvings of herself punishing her enemies were resplendent on either side. “I have a pavilion on the north side,” she said. “Let us sit there, and contemplate the pyramid.”

A structure of woven reeds sturdy enough to withstand the winds was waiting for us, as were the inevitable, discreet stone seats for her ample majesty. She sank down upon one. I sat close by.

“My dear, you have passed the test,” she said. “And now I will ask you to join me on my glorious enterprise. An empire, an alliance of women!” Before I could speak, she went on at breakneck speed. “I can see that you are a woman beyond all other women. Leave behind your alliance with men, with Rome. Let us forge a new one. Together we can make a nation that will look to the south, to Africa, to the east, to Arabia and India. A great nation, turning its back on Rome and its leavings. What do the Romans know of our kind? Of art, and poetry, and the mysteries of Osiris and Isis? They understand nothing but what happens in the sunlight. Of the dawn, the twilight, the dark of the moon, they know not. Yet they wish to destroy it.”

“I do not think they care enough about it to destroy it,” I finally said.

“They only want to crush it beneath their chariot wheels, their chariot wheels turning in the constant Triumphs they celebrate at Rome. Crush it, and then sweep it away.” She leaned over to me. “You are our only hope. You may be the savior predicted by the oracle. The woman who will shear Rome’s hair. Who will save the east.”

The truth slowly dawned on me. “Why…this is why you wanted me to come to Meroe. So we could sit together in private and you could make this proposal. Ptolemy the pretender was just a ruse.” She was devious and clever as Odysseus. And a gambler—like Caesar himself.

“You know you don’t belong with them,” she said, ignoring my question. “They will never understand you, never understand what it is Egypt stands for. To them, it is just a big grain factory, existing to placate the grumbling Roman crowds and soldiers. Separately we will be taken by them. Together, we can resist. And the nation we can create! The glory of Greece, the splendor of Africa, the riches of India! And all ruled by a spirit of sophistication, tolerance, experimentation! The way of life, of joy!”

“You sound like a merchant hawking his wares,” I said. “Do not make such extravagant claims for your new nation. It would be made up of men, not gods.”

“A nation that will follow in the tradition of the great Alexander. Did he not look to the east? Did not his yearnings draw him there, and would have drawn him still farther into India, if only his fainthearted soldiers had not faltered?”

“We do not have an army like Alexander’s,” I said.

“No one does. Not even Caesar, since he must expend his energies righting fellow Romans. But Nubia has a fine army, and the best bowmen in the world. Against anyone but Rome, we would do well.”

“But Rome would never just let us alone.”

“Ah! Do I detect a serious consideration of my proposal?” She leapt in like a dog scenting blood. “Think of Rome! What can you expect of her? I know of your feelings for Caesar, but he is just one man, and not immortal. What would Rome be to you without him? Its meaning for you would vanish. Our alliance is more natural. It is not based on your person or my person, but on the needs of our countries.”

“You say it is not based on our persons, but earlier you stressed that it should be an alliance of women. My son will succeed me; what then?”

She was persuasive; she had many clever reasons for her plan. But in the end it was not sensible. Rome was master of the world. It was best to be on that side, rather than attempting to go it alone. Yet the image of that magical kingdom Amanishakheto beckoned me to was to linger, and linger….

“You will live a long time,” she said. “It is you who will put the stamp on what sort of kingdom it will be. Your son will inherit your creation.”

Successors sometimes respected traditions and sometimes did not. It was no certain thing. “I will not live a long time if cobras keep coming into my room,” I said. “Have you been informed about last night? Poor Kasu took what I fear was meant for me. But I think she will survive. The snake was clumsy.”

“Yes. I heard. I fear that this happens more often than I would like to admit. The snake charmers and snake catchers seem to be doing a poor job. I am more thankful than I can ever say that you were unharmed. The gods protected you, and
made
the snake miss. But what of our alliance? Do consider it! Remember how our ancestors, the noble Ptolemy the Fourth and Arqamani, worked together to build the temples at Philae and Dakka. It was the beginning. This is meant to be, I tell you!”

“Not for now,” I told her quietly, but as definitely as I could. “You tempt me. I find your proposal intriguing. I will always remember it, and be honored that you asked me. But I do not believe it is possible. And when something is not possible, it is best to let go of it with gentle respect. I thank you for the offer of the alliance, and I trust that, even with no formal agreement, we will always be friends and allies.”

Her face fell, but she accepted my answer. “Very well. And when the Romans let you down, know that I will avenge you!” She took a deep breath. “I will not make the offer a second time. Should you ever wish it, the proposal must come from you.”

“Very well. I will not be too proud, should the time come. And thank you again. It was worth the journey to obtain such a friend.”

As we rode back toward Meroe, I saw a fresh mound of sand, topped by rocks. The setting sun made the rocks cast jagged shadows.

“The grave of the impostor,” said the Kandake. “There he lies.”

The camels trotted by the heap of stones, and we left it to face the coming desert night and its scavengers. I hoped there were enough rocks on it to protect it.

Noon on the Nile, Nubia gliding past. We had taken leave of Meroe at dawn, and now the backs of my rowers were glistening as they manned the oars. To double our speed, we were rowing with the current. The sails were folded away, useless on the return journey. I sat in the shaded deck cabin, Kasu by my feet. She had recovered after a spell of weakness; Iras and I had nursed her in our chamber, which the Meroites found amusing. A queen tending a monkey, they had laughed; an upside-down world. But our care was repaid. Her only scar was the bald tip of her tail; the residue of poison had killed all the fur. And I, who had wished to refuse the gift of her, now found that I did not want to be parted from the creature.

I felt queasy, and touched my stomach gingerly. The ostrich-egg feast Amanishakheto had served as a farewell banquet was not sitting well with me. She had outdone herself in having her cooks prepare ostrich eggs in every normal way, and every outlandish way as well. There were fluffy whipped ostrich eggs flavored with cinnamon, baked ostrich eggs served with toppings of dried lizard tails and salted sea slug, ostrich eggs layered with camel-milk cheese, starfish arms, and baby crocodile snouts (finely chopped, of course), boiled ostrich eggs to be eaten out of their gilded shells and flavored with fermented-fish relish or spiced honey. Boiled ostrich with date sauce was the only meat. Since each ostrich egg must be the equivalent of twenty or thirty duck eggs, the amount of food served was staggering.

The Kandake managed to sample at least three or four of them, as well as several helpings of the boiled ostrich meat. She had decked herself out in so many ostrich plumes, she appeared to float. I could see that she was diligently doing her part to keep up her vast proportions.

But it was all I could do to choke down samples of the food. The fast Nubian dancers and acrobats who had performed during the feast had not aided the task of digestion. The flavors all fought with each other—both last night and now. I would fast today; I
must
fast today.

Iras was standing beside me. As always, she was somewhat quiet. One felt her presence rather than heard it.

“I am pleased you could come with me,” I said. “I feel I understand you better now that I have seen your ancestral lands.”

“They were a bit foreign to me,” she admitted. “But it was good for me to see them, too.”

On we went, down the river, leaving the green fields behind, heading into the forbidding, baking desert.

Time seemed to lose its meaning, to dissolve in the days on the river; it appeared that our boat was standing still while the scenery changed around us. Green, brown, gray, golden; trees, crops, waterwheels, cliffs, temples, monuments; glowing sunrises and fiery sunsets that stained the water red; a sandstorm once that flecked the waters of the Nile brown and foamy and veiled the sun, bending the palms on the riverbanks almost double. At one point we entered an area of cliffs on one side and sand on the other that I called the Yellow Vale, for everything there was yellow in all its shades: buff, gold, orange, topaz, amber.

I was deeply glad that I had come; I did not regret the time spent. I found the Kandake and her proposal to me very comforting; in some ways it was the only honorable one I had yet received.

Alexandria, sparkling in the sun, brisk and bracing with its sea breezes. Perfect now in early June; and it felt good to return.

Rebuilding had been going on apace, and much of the war damage had been repaired. Mardian and Epaphroditus had managed things well, although there had been squabbles over—what else?—power. Mardian had resented the intrusion of this newcomer, and Epaphroditus had not liked taking a secondary position. Each of them was waiting to pounce on me and pour out his complaints about the other.

I spoke with Mardian first, and listened patiently to his recital of the aggravations of working with Epaphroditus: his arrogance, his insistence on his own methods, his unavailability at certain times, owing to his other business. I attempted to soothe him. Epaphroditus was there to ease his burden, to free him to take care of higher matters of state.

“Free me!” Mardian had snorted. “How can he free me when he imposes his own schedule on everyone else’s?”

I sighed. I knew it would take some time before Ephaphroditus was weaned away from his other concerns, and if Mardian made his life difficult, working at the palace would never be very appealing. “Give him time,” I said. “He is a stubborn man.”

“I can say he is! I don’t know why your heart is so set on him!”

“It is for both our sakes,” I insisted. “You should not have to expend more than a quarter of your time on the financial matters.” I paused. “You have done wonders in the rebuilding,” I said. “I am most impressed. Soon the war will be erased.”

“Not completely,” he said. “There is always Caesarion to remind us that it happened.”

Caesarion. I had returned to find my son about to begin walking. At the end of the month he would be a year old.

I nodded. “Yes. I know that, although sometimes it does seem unreal.” I noticed that he was carrying several scrolls. “You have news. News of Caesar.” I held out my hands for the letters and reports. Whatever was in them, I could face.

“He won, my lady,” said Mardian. “He won.”

The story was all in the scrolls, and I read and reread them for hours. This war had taxed Caesar’s ingenuity and resourcefulness to the utmost, for one of his best lieutenants of the Gallic Wars, Labienus, was with the rebels. It was he who directed their strategy and tactics; it was he who knew how his former commander thought, and could anticipate his moves. It was he, Labienus, who knew that Caesar liked to strike fast and fight pitched battles. For four months he thwarted Caesar’s attempts to do that. Caesar was unable to bring any of the parties to battle, and in the meantime was hard put to feed and supply his men.

At long last, through his own cleverness, Caesar managed to trick the enemy near the city of Thapsus. The city was located on an isthmus, and Caesar proceeded there with his entire army as if he meant to besiege it. He made an easy target for the enemy, who thought they had captured him. Actually it was he who had captured them. They divided their forces, thinking to bottle Caesar up. On his western side, Scipio and his legions and elephants dug in; on the eastern, Juba and Afranius. Like a nugget between them lay Caesar—his army all together in one body. The enemy was on narrow terrain, where the deployment of forces was difficult and cavalry was particularly hampered. It did not seem to occur to them that they were now exposed, divided, and on battleground unsuited for their strengths. Instead they gloated over having fenced Caesar in on a narrow neck of land.

While Scipio was entrenching, and drawing up his lines, Caesar left two legions to guard the city of Thapsus (whose inhabitants were cowering inside the walls) and his rear, with Juba and Afranius, and took the rest to fight Scipio. Against the two wings of elephants he deployed his four best legions, backed up by the Fifth, specially trained in terrorizing elephants and turning them against their masters. Likewise the other legions had been trained not to flinch in an elephant attack.

The troops were even more eager for battle than Caesar was; months of humiliating inactivity and hindrance had made them almost mad. It was all Caesar could do to restrain them; they pressed forward almost before he could give the battle-cry
Felicitas!
and lead the charge. The Fifth Legion, along with the slingers and archers, broke the left wing of elephants, and the animals stampeded back into their own lines; the rest of the army turned and fled. At the sight of Scipio’s army collapsing, Juba and Afranius likewise fled. Caesar’s angry troops pursued them, and even when they surrendered and begged for mercy, they slew them to a man. Too many of the enemy soldiers had already been pardoned once by Caesar for fighting against him earlier. His soldiers were finished with clemency, even if their commander was not.

Immediately after the battle, Caesar rushed to Utica, where Cato and his supporters were. This was the gathering place of the wealthy senators and property owners who supported Pompey’s cause. Doubtless the defeated generals would flee there; Caesar hoped to catch them, and also to capture Cato, his most relentless foe.

But Cato robbed him of the opportunity to demonstrate his clemency. “I am not willing to be indebted to the tyrant for his illegal actions,” he said. “He is acting contrary to the laws when he pardons men as if he were their master, when he has no sovereignty over them.” Then followed his stubborn and gory suicide. After a dinner with friends, and a private reading of Plato’s dialogue of the soul, he smuggled a sword into his bedroom and, in the middle of the night, stabbed himself. His horrified family and physician discovered him before he could bleed to death. The wound was sutured. Then, before their eyes, he ripped it open with his own hands so his entrails spilled out, and he died on his couch.

The end of the others was equally showy. Juba planned to immolate himself—as well as his family and his subjects—on a giant funeral pyre in his capital city; the citizens did not wish to render their city for the service, so they refused him entrance. Juba and his ally, Petreius, instead held a death banquet in which they dined sumptuously, and then they fought a duel. Juba killed Petreius and then had himself killed by his slave. Scipio fled by sea and, when captured, stabbed himself on the deck of the ship. Mortally wounded, when his captors asked where the Imperator was, he told them, “
Imperator bene se habet
”—“The general is well enough, thank you”—and then he died.

Labienus, Varus, and both Pompey’s sons, Gnaeus and Sextus, escaped to Spain—doubtless to fight again. But with the death of Cato, the Republic had expired.

In three weeks—three weeks that were long-sought and long in coming—all of North Africa had fallen into Caesar’s hands. He proceeded to turn Juba’s kingdom into the Roman province of New Africa, and doled out bits and pieces to reward the Mauretanian kings for their support.

Only Egypt remained free. All the rest was now Roman, won by Caesar.

Other letters contained vignettes of Caesar’s behavior. One reported how, in an earlier attack, when all was confusion and Caesar was almost routed, he caught one of his fleeing standard-bearers, took him by the shoulders, turned him around, and said firmly, “
That
is the direction of the enemy.”

Upon being told of Cato’s suicide, he had said, “Cato, I must begrudge you your death, as you begrudged me the honor of saving your life.” I myself rejoiced at Cato’s death, as he had caused my uncle’s more than ten years earlier in Cyprus. Death chasing death; suicide giving rise to suicide. Now, surely, it must end.

There was also a report that Caesar had loaded Eunoe, wife of the Moorish King Bogud, with presents, and rewarded her husband lavishly for allowing his wife to be his mistress. Nothing more. No details.

I forced myself to read on, though my heart was heavy. I had hoped to find no mention of it, so that I could dismiss it as an earlier rumor and slander put out by Scipio, with no foundation.

In order to hearten his soldiers, he did not belittle the enemy’s strength, but rather exaggerated it. When his troops were in a panic over King Juba’s advance, he addressed their fears thus: “You may take it from me that the King will be here within a few days, at the head of ten infantry legions, thirty thousand cavalry, a hundred thousand lightly armed troops, and three hundred elephants. This being the case, you may as well stop asking questions and making guesses. I have given you the facts, with which I am familiar.” He was complimenting their valor by presenting them boldly with these overwhelming odds, as if they were of no real import to such soldiers as his.

He was liberal about his soldiers’ predictable misbehavior, and one of his boasts was, “My soldiers fight just as well when they are stinking of perfume.” But he was brutal in punishing desertion or mutiny—soldierly dishonor.

He always addressed his soldiers as “comrades” and gave them expensive equipment—weapons with gold and silver inlays, for example. But this was clever of him, for it made them more determined not to be disarmed in battle. He loved his men dearly, and they loved him. He won the devotion of his army, and their devotion to him made them extraordinarily brave. Private soldiers offered to serve under him without pay or rations, and throughout all the civil wars there were almost no desertions, including during this one.

It was his custom to spare all enemy soldiers captured the first time; only if they were taken a second time did he order their execution.

Other letters concerned the state of affairs in Rome, and Caesar’s expected return there in Quintilis. Only it was no longer to be known as Quintilis, but to be renamed
July
in his honor.
July
, the month when Gaius Julius Caesar had been born.

But for all those letters, reports, dispatches, and scrolls about Caesar, there was no word from Caesar himself. He was silent toward me, silent toward Egypt.

More news trickled in. The shattered forces of the followers of Pompey, bedraggled and dazed, were gathering in Spain. Spain seemed to breed one uprising and discontent after another. Caesar would have to go there and end it once and for all. But not yet.

At last it came: a letter from Caesar; and it came from Utica, not Rome. He was still on our coasts. I took it and withdrew onto the most secluded part of my terrace, holding it for a long time before opening it. I had waited so long, and now I was hesitant to end the suspense. But finally I did break the seal and read it.