The Memoirs of Cleopatra (43 page)

A knot of people I did not recognize came in with two I did: Brutus and his mother, Servilia. I smiled as they approached. With them were several men, all wearing senatorial togas. One was thin and dark, with a straight, lowering line of eyebrows; another was beefy and red-faced; and a third had an expression that combined worry and self-complacency.

“Gaius Cassius Longinus,” muttered the first one, almost spitting out the words. I did not need Valeria to inform me this man did not care for me. How he felt about Caesar I could not know yet.

“Publius Servilius Casca,” said the stocky one. He nodded gravely and passed on.

“Marcus Tullius Cicero,” said the third, as if he found it amusing he should have to introduce himself.

Cicero! He had the surprising attribute of looking almost exactly like his busts.

“My wife, Publilia,” he said, presenting a woman who looked more like his granddaughter. She smirked and bowed.

Cicero lingered by my side. “The spoils of Egypt,” he said lightly, indicating the room decorations. His hand circled the periphery and then, ever so casually, included me in its sweep. “How I should love to travel there and behold it.”

“You must visit us,” I said. “But I have been told you regard leaving Rome as being in exile, even when you were governor of Cilicia.”

“It is true that I find myself happiest in Rome. It has all that a human being needs in order to fulfill himself.” He sighed like a smitten schoolboy. Truly he was in love with Rome; in that he was sincere.

“I know that wherever the government is to be found, there Cicero calls himself content,” I said.

“And the government of the world is in Rome,” he said pointedly.

“It is true that Rome has conquered much of the world,” I replied, “but she has yet to perfect a means of governing it, especially from Rome. The boundaries of the empire stretch now far to the north and west, as well as to the east.”

Cicero stiffened. “The Republic is the best system of government the world has ever created,” he said.

“Until now,” I insisted. “But the Republic may not lend itself to governing a large area. Rome was a small city, after all, when it was invented.”

I expected him to say something witty, but instead he drew his robes around himself as if he had been contaminated, and muttered, “Come,” to Publilia. They wandered off into the large banqueting chamber.

“Cicero made a mistake in marrying that girl,” said Valeria in my ear. “He wanted her money, but he’s got more than he bargained for.”

“She’s very beautiful,” I admitted.

“He should have stuck with his grumbling old former wife,” said Valeria. “They were well suited.”

I remembered the dark looks of the first man. “Cassius—what about him?” I asked.

“He’s one of Pompey’s generals who came over to Caesar afterwards. He’s related to Brutus by marriage. They glower together.”

“So he’s one of the ones Caesar forgave. Did he come willingly?” I asked.

“I am not sure. I think the former followers of Pompey gave up after his death. They have shown little interest in supporting his sons.”

“But do they support
Caesar?
”

She thought for a moment before answering. “They tolerate him,” she finally said.

Octavia arrived, with her husband Gaius Claudius Marcellus, a handsome man.

“He also was in Pompey’s party, and pardoned by Caesar,” Valeria informed me.

I was beginning to feel that all of Rome had been pardoned by Caesar. That meant he had an enormous number of former enemies at large.

More people swept into the room. They were coming in great waves, the hems of their gowns wet from their crossing of the “Nile.” But they were smiling and laughing, so perhaps the ludicrous staging was one of Caesar’s ideas of genius. Nothing else would have put his critics in so jolly a mood.

A middle-aged man, accompanied by two women, entered hesitantly, then made a straight path toward us. He appeared thin under the voluminous toga, but then, that was one of the glories of a toga—it hid fat and bones alike, so one could never tell the true dimensions of the wearer underneath.

“Marcus Aemilius Lepidus,” he introduced himself. “I have the honor of serving as Consul with Caesar this year.” He smiled warmly. “My wife, Junia.”

“He is too modest,” said his wife. “He served as Caesar’s right-hand man as governor of Further Spain while Caesar fought in the east. He held it for him.”

Lepidus looked embarrassed. “My wife overpraises me,” he said. “No one could be called ‘Caesar’s right-hand man.’ I would say it is enough to serve as his left-hand man, but that sounds threatening.” He laughed.

“Caesar has granted him a Triumph for his actions in Spain,” his wife persisted.

“Enough, Junia,” he said. “No one likes a braggart.”

The other woman now spoke up. “I am also Junia, Junia’s sister, and the wife of Cassius.”

“Then…you are also Brutus’ sister?” How confusing all these names were! Why did all of a man’s daughters share the same name in Rome?

“Indeed,” she said.

They passed on into the larger room, and I turned to Valeria.

“At last, a wholehearted supporter of Caesar!” I said.

“Yes. But he is such a broken reed to lean upon.” She shook her head. “Lepidus is…flaccid.”

In what way? I wondered. On the battlefield, or in bed? I watched his wife’s back as she disappeared into the throng.

A woman approached us boldly. She was with no man, but carried herself with a soldier’s gait. She was rather attractive, with masses of wheat-colored hair bound in at her neck, and a wide jaw.

“Fulvia, Your Majesty,” she said, looking directly into my eyes. She waited a moment before saying, “Of the Fulvian family of Tusculum,” as if that would enlighten me.

But I had heard of her…. What had I heard? Was she not that fiery wife of the insurrectionist Clodius? I remembered hearing her name in connection with the street fights of Rome.

“Welcome,” I said, thinking how fierce she looked—like an Amazon.

“Is she not the widow of Clodius?” I asked Valeria a moment later.

Valeria looked surprised. “So her fame has spread even to Alexandria,” she said. “Indeed she is. And also of Curio.”

“She does not look as if she will need another husband,” I said. “He would have to be Hercules.”

“They say that is exactly what she has in mind,” replied Valeria.

As if this were a staged performance, she had scarcely got the words out when a man dressed as Hercules burst through the doorway.

He was big and muscled like a bear, and with a lionskin knotted around his neck and a club slung over his shoulder, he looked Olympian. Hanging on his arm was a woman so garishly dressed I had to blink at beholding her.

“He didn’t!” said Valeria. “He didn’t bring
her!
”

The man made his way over to us, striding easily. He stopped and stared at me as if he were seeing a curiosity of nature. He had a wide, well-formed face with intelligent dark eyes, and a thick neck, and a smile that would have blinded a god.

“How the child has changed!” he blurted out. “Princess Cleopatra, do you not remember me? I am Marcus Antonius—Marc Antony. I came to Alexandria with Gabinius. I saved your throne, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

The young soldier. Yes, I remembered him now. He had changed as much as I. “Yes, of course. But I thought it was Gabinius who saved my father’s throne, since he was the only man in the world who dared undertake the task, which all of Rome had forbidden.”

“Gabinius needed a cavalry officer,” he said. “And it was I who overcame the frontier fortress of Pelusium, the most difficult part of the campaign.”

“So you did.” I remembered now the recounting of it, how he had bravely and quickly taken the fortress, thought to be unassailable. “So you did.”

“Yes, Princess. I did.” He said this not particularly proudly, but as a matter of fact.

“I am Queen now,” I said likewise matter-of-factly.

“And Caesar’s woman,” he said. “Fortunate Caesar.” He waved his hand high. “Beloved of the gods, to be given you as prize and treasure!” His voice was too loud, and everyone heard him.

“Why are you dressed as Hercules?” I asked, to deflect the curious ears.

“Why, is this not a costume party? Do you mean to tell me you dress this way daily? I came as my ancestor, for I’m descended from Hercules—as everyone knows.”

“Yes, as everyone knows,” parroted the woman.

“May I present Cytheris, the foremost actress of Rome?” said Antony innocently.

Fulvia glided over and said, “My dear Antony, I have hoped to speak with you—” and guided him off forcibly.

Valeria could not suppress a laugh. “So he brought that actress. Does he have no restraint? It is hardly the way to win back Caesar’s favor.”

Where was Caesar? I began to long for him. The party was becoming overwhelming, and there was no one to direct it—although Antony and his actress friend would doubtless relish trying.

Octavian approached, boys near his own age on each side. He actually had a smile on his face, and seemed relatively lighthearted.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “You remember Agrippa?” Beside him, Agrippa nodded. “And my friends Publius Vergilius Maro and Quintus Horatius Flaccus.”

Two pale faces stared at me, as if they were bewildered by the sight.

“I am called Horace,” said one, the sturdier one.

“And I am known amongst my friends as Vergil,” said the older, slighter one. “I must tell you, Your Majesty, I am greatly enamored of the Alexandrian mode of poetry.”

“They have come to Rome to study,” said Octavian. “All of us country boys seem to be drawn here. But afterward Horace will go to Athens, to the university there. Perhaps I’ll follow him.”

I thought to myself that Octavian would probably be best suited to a scholarly life. I assumed he would spend his adult years espousing some field of philosophy or history, and writing manuscripts no one would ever read.

The boys drifted away, and I saw Octavia bringing someone over. He was a tall, impressive man who was actually flattered by the lines of a toga.

“I wish to present to you Vitruvius Pollio,” she said, excitedly.

The man bowed low. “Your Majesty, I am honored,” he said.

“He is dear to Caesar as an arms expert,” Octavia said. “But he is dear to all Rome as an architect and engineer. He understands the mysteries of water, of wood, of stone, and translates them for us.”

“I had the honor to serve Caesar in his campaigns in Gaul and Africa.”

Africa! So he had been present in that last, grueling war. I was grateful for whatever he had done to bring about its success. Certainly Caesar owed a great deal to his military engineers.

“Caesar is blessed to have men like you at his side,” I said.

Another woman was wandering about alone. I saw her as she entered the doorway, but she was searching the crowd for someone. There was something in her bearing that made me curious about her, and I pointed her out to Valeria.

“Ah, that’s Clodia,” she said. “I thought she was dead!” She shook her head. “Clodia was Catullus’s and Caelis’s mistress—not at the same time, of course. Now they’re both dead, and she’s not so young herself. She must be looking for another lover, and what better place to look than a party?”

I was puzzled by the Roman freedom—and lack of it—granted to women. They did not have their own names, but had to take versions of their father’s. They were married off callously to make political alliances, and were divorced just as casually. They held no public office, nor could they command troops. Yet they themselves could instigate a divorce, and they could own property. They accompanied their husbands to social gatherings, unlike Greek women, and seemed to have their menfolk well in tow.

Married women also had love affairs, so it seemed—the virtuous, respected Servilia; Mucia, the wife of Pompey—were there others? But the men could carry them on openly, whereas the women could not. And what of women like Cytheris and Clodia? And why must “Caesar’s wife be above suspicion,” whereas Caesar himself could carry on openly?

And was I, a foreign queen, exempt from these mores?

Trumpets sounded, and a hush fell. Caesar strode into the room.

Even though he was not the tallest or biggest man there, the ranks gave way before him. People backed away to give all the space to him. For an instant complete silence surrounded him, as if he were ringed by stones.

“Welcome, friends! Welcome all!” he said in a ringing voice, and suddenly sound sprung up all around him.

He was alone. Calpurnia was not with him. Was that why he had come so late?

“Egyptian music!” he commanded, and the musicians took up their playing again, the unfamiliar—to the Romans—chords filling the hall.

He turned and stared at me, his face not registering any emotion. Was it a good silence, or a bad one? One never knew with him.

“The Queen of Egypt presides,” he announced. “The Queen reigns over this feast.” He took his place next to me.

“You look like a whore,” he whispered in my ear.

“This villa looks like a brothel,” I whispered back. “I took my cue from you.”

He laughed. “I think it is your boldness I always love best,” he said.

“Why did you choose to depict Egypt in such a fashion?” I demanded.

“I told you in my note,” he replied. “What we scorn, we do not desire.”

“What about whores?” I asked.

He looked surprised.

“I mean, the highest men seem to consort with them, even if they shun them in public. They are highly scorned, yet highly desired.”

Clodia drifted by, giving Caesar a conspiratorial look.

“Such as Clodia,” I said. “And Antony has brought an actress whom everyone is leering at.”

“Antony would be naked without an actress everyone is leering at.” He turned to Valeria. “Thank you for helping. I trust that you enjoyed the task.”

She smiled. “Gossip is always a pleasure.” She detached herself and disappeared into the crowd.

The feast table was laid, with a lidded crocodile skin serving to hold piles of fruit—cherries, pears, apples, sweet figs and dates, pomegranates. Huge rimmed platters swam with such sea creatures as squid and sea urchins and oysters. Stuffed boars looked at us forlornly, their gilded bristles drooping. People swarmed around the table, stuffing themselves, washing down the food with enormous quantities of wine. The noise rose, casting us adrift in a sea of voices.