The Memoirs of Cleopatra (51 page)

I clutched Ptolemy’s hand in one of mine, and Charmian’s in the other. On this holiday the slaves, servants, and masters all mingled together, and the masters had to serve the slaves.

My gladiator’s costume was of the type called Samnite, and I had modified it to make it more modest, since true gladiators wore only a sort of loincloth and shin protectors, as well as a magnificent helmet. I had thought it well to cover my upper body with a breastplate, and my upper limbs with leather lappets. But I did love the helmet—it had a heavy curved rim and ornamentation all over the crown, as well as a decorated visor.

When Decimus had brought the costume in person, I had taken the helmet in both hands and lowered it slowly onto my head. As soon as it was in place, I felt different. I knew then, for the first time, what it would feel like to be a warrior, to step out onto the field. I also knew then that I wanted to do so—I wanted to lead troops, or command a ship. True, I had gathered an army against my brother long ago, but I had not seen any actual fighting. This weighty helmet, this sword in my hand, made my blood sing, taking me by surprise.

“It is kind of you to have brought this for me,” I told him, removing the helmet.

“It is my pleasure,” he said. “I hope you will find it a good fit. I took it from one of my smallest fighters, a man from Malta. For all their small size, the Maltese are fierce.”

I liked this man as much for his gentle manner as for the fact that I knew Caesar was fond of him. Decimus had served him well in two sea battles and in Gaul, and Caesar had disclosed to me that he planned to announce Decimus’s appointment as governor of Gaul for the coming year.

“You make a most formidable
gladiatrix
,” he said. “But you need an opponent. That is why I brought two costumes—Charmian can be your adversary.” He handed her the old-fashioned costume of the Thracian fighter. “We don’t have much call for this any longer, but I think it will make a good disguise.”

At the time I thought, What a sweet, considerate man!

Now Charmian and I, as the two
gladiatrices
, and Ptolemy, as the chariot racer, wearing the green colors of a champion that appealed to him because it was the shade of the Nile, wove our way through the crowd in Caesar’s atrium, looking for faces we could recognize in the dim light.

At first I saw no one and wondered why all crowds looked alike. Then, with relief, I glimpsed Lepidus standing against one wall, munching on a stick of pastry. He was not wearing any costume, which was good, as I never would have recognized him otherwise.

“Hail, brave fighter!” He saluted me, and I removed my helmet to talk to him. He looked surprised when he saw who the gladiator was. “Great Queen!” he said. “What battles do you fight?”

I saw him eyeing my arms and legs appreciatively. I thought it best to remind him of Caesar. “Only those who seem to be Caesar’s foes.”

He swept his hand over the room. “The house is swarming with them. But Caesar has declared an amnesty for those who will not accept an outright pardon, and they have come running back to Rome. Just think, had Cato, his enemy, lived, even he might be here tonight!”

A group of slaves pushed past us, shouting about gambling. “Bets taken! Dicing about to begin!” they yelled.

“This is the one time when slaves are allowed to gamble,” said Lepidus. “Openly, that is.” He stepped out of their way.

Then a party of men and women dressed like Gauls paraded through the room posing and crying,

At the word “breeches,” they all pulled them down. Everyone shrieked. Caesar, at the far end of the atrium, laughed and tossed them a purple gown.

“Cover yourselves!” he shouted.

“So he isn’t embarrassed by it,” said Lepidus. “Interesting. He’s so unpredictable. Cato bothers him, and this does not.” He looked around. “And I’m surprised there aren’t verses about the
libertini
as well.” When I did not respond, he explained, “Liberated slaves. Caesar has let their sons into the Senate. It’s as if he were appealing to the people, right over the heads of the aristocracy.”

The common people, and his legionaries—there lay Caesar’s strength. He had harnessed the latter, and now meant to harness the former. A dangerous game.

The heat from the mass of bodies was growing oppressive, the noise level unpleasant. I should seek out Caesar and greet him, but the sight of Calpurnia standing resolutely by his side deterred me. I found myself watching him carefully through the holes of my visor. How did he speak to her? Did she take his hand, or did he take hers first? Why were they still married?

Lepidus bent over and whispered in my ear, “There’s to be a motion put before the Senate to allow Caesar to marry more than one wife.”

“What?” There was no society that permitted that, to my knowledge. Men had legal concubines, yes; but more than one true, equal wife, no.

“I have heard it from reliable sources,” Lepidus said. “It would enable Caesar to beget legal heirs, since Calpurnia is barren. There are several hereditary honors granted to Caesar that he cannot pass on—the title of Imperator, and the office of Pontifex Maximus—owing to his lack of an heir.”

“Then let him divorce Calpurnia!” I said. “Everyone seems to be divorcing everyone else in Rome.” I had lately heard that Cicero’s marriage to the nubile Publilia had ended in divorce—hardly a surprise.

“It seems”—Lepidus hesitated—“he does not wish to.”

Yes. Evidently that was the case. Or else he would have. But I would never consent to becoming his second wife while he retained the first. I would be the first, the only, the real wife—or not at all. “Whose idea was this?” If Caesar thought that I would ever consent to such a thing—then he did not know me at all. Or else he truly had begun to think himself exempt from the normal rules of decency.

“I cannot imagine that it would have originated anywhere else but—with Caesar himself,” said Lepidus. “No one would dare propose it without his knowledge.”

What an insult! Suddenly I hated him, standing there so smugly with his Calpurnia hanging on his arm, surveying all his guests, including the ones he had magnanimously pardoned, whether they would have it or not.

“Come, Charmian!” I said. “Ptolemy! I find that I would prefer the hospitality of Cicero. Yes, even the hospitality of Cicero!” I grabbed their hands.

“But we just got here!” cried Ptolemy.

“It’s too crowded,” I said. “Cicero’s house is grander. Let us go there.”

We pushed our way out and into the Forum, where the falling darkness, and the lighted torches, were refreshing after the heat and confusion inside. There were groups of people tramping through, but they were in clumps and much of the pavement was empty.

We turned east and passed by the house of the Vestals, then turned at the site of the Temple of Jupiter Stator and found the road, the Clivus Palatinus, that led in a stately ascent to the Palatine Hill. Torches were planted along the way, and the tall umbrella pines were whispering in the rising breeze. I thought what a soothing place this must be to live, high above the vexations of Rome. The air was delicately perfumed with the pines, and from the winds blowing in from the countryside.

It was not difficult to find Cicero’s mansion, which was famous as much for its size and site as for the fact that Cicero’s political enemy Clodius had had it demolished, and Cicero had rebuilt it grander than ever in revenge. Lights shone from every window, and the well-clipped hedges around it seemed as ordered as Cicero’s polished writings. The house reflected the man—but then, does it not always?

Show me a man’s wife, a man’s house, and a man’s servants, let me observe them carefully, and I will tell you everything about him
, my tutor had once pronounced. I think he was right.

We entered the spacious atrium, with its large
impluvium
pool of collected rainwater in the center. Immediately I could see how tasteful the murals were, with muted green and black backgrounds, setting off scenes of flower garlands and orchards of fruit trees, so lifelike I felt I could pluck one of the apples.

Instead of the close-pressed mob at Caesar’s, discreet groups of people stood about talking. I caught sight of Cicero himself bearing a tray of food and serving guests. I approached him, remembering to remove my helmet.

“Welcome, Your Majesty,” he said. “Excuse me just a moment.” He preferred a basket of fruit to some people nearby. One of them made a show of taking forever to select a fig.

“It is Tiro, my secretary,” said Cicero, when he turned back to me. “He greatly enjoys this turnabout.” He offered me the basket as well. I declined.

“What? You will not have an apple, or even a pear? These come from my very own estate in Tusculum. Please! You insult my farming prowess!”

I reached in and took one. “Why is it that you Romans must see yourselves as farmers, even when you are statesmen?” I asked. “It is unique to your country.”

“Yes, I know,” he said. “No one ever pictures Alexander raising pears, or Pericles tending his rows of beans. I depart for my country house in two days, and I am counting the hours.”

“If I were to have a country estate in Egypt—nay, I cannot imagine it!”

“You are a creature of the city,” said Cicero. “Of course, what a city! Alexandria, dazzling in white marble! I have longed to enter the Library and wander among the scrolls. What treasures there must be, lying unsung in the niches!”

“We are proud to have the finest library in the world,” I said. “But Caesar plans to build a similar one here in Rome.”

He smiled diffidently. “Yes, but I am already an old man,” he said. “I fear I shall never be able to take advantage of it.”

Just then I saw a knot of men I recognized well: Brutus, Cassius, and Casca. They hung together as if they were roped. Brutus had a woman with him I had never seen before. It must be his new wife, Porcia. Beside her was Servilia.

I felt a flare of jealousy in looking at Servilia. I suppose Caesar would make her one of his auxiliary wives as well! I thought. After all, he should take a number, or the special privilege would be worth little!

Cicero had been talking, and I had missed most of his words. They ended, “…if you might consider it.”

“I beg your pardon,” I said. “Would you repeat that?”

“I was asking if it might be possible for me to borrow the manuscript you have of the
Iliad
, and I was interested in some of Sappho’s poems. I understand there are fragments of her writings found nowhere save in your archives.”

His keen eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, were eager. I wished I could oblige him.

“I am sorry,” I said, “but it is strictly forbidden to remove any scrolls from the Library.”

His expression changed instantly. “Surely you could give the order.”

“No. Even I am not permitted to remove any. But I could have copies made.”

“So you don’t trust me!” he said. “Copies!”

“I told you, it is our rule—”

“Are you not an absolute ruler? Could you not command their removal?”

“It would not be right,” I said. “I cannot order it just on a personal whim.”

“You would be quick enough to remove them if Caesar asked!” he said coldly.

“A copy should suffice,” I said. “That way you could keep it for your own library. With all the shipwrecks, surely you can appreciate that we cannot trust our manuscripts to the high seas.”

His smile and genial manner had drained away. “I see.”

“Is this a test of some sort? For it makes no sense otherwise,” I said. “I have told you I would be pleased to make copies of whatever you request.”

“Never mind,” he said. “Don’t trouble yourself!”

To my amazement, he turned his back on me and walked away.

In all my life, no one had ever done that. But this was Rome, and the Saturnalia was a time of license. Masters served their slaves, and hosts turned their backs on guest queens.

“Come,” I said to Ptolemy and Charmian. “I think we should move on.”

“But we just got here!” he repeated. “Why do you keep doing this?”

The only other house I knew to seek out was Antony’s. It, too, was famous, because he had seized it from Pompey’s forfeited estate and lived riotously in it, letting its contents be stripped away by gamblers and freeloaders. They said that slaves had won the purple bedspreads of Pompey, spreading them out on their pallets, and that all the furniture had been carried out on the shoulders of victorious dicers.

It, too, was not difficult to find. It stood, a big jutting mansion, in the area called the Carinae, a short walk from Cicero’s. It was not as well situated, being on a spur of land trailing off from the Palatine, but it was still well above the level of the Forum.

The lights were blazing. By this time it was thoroughly dark, and the golden fire of torches was the only illumination in the city.

Loud noise poured out the main entrance. I stood, pushing my helmet down and clutching my shield. Suddenly I was tired. I was doing this for Ptolemy. My first two choices of houses had not offered him much. Surely this one would be better. I squared my shoulders and walked in.

A blast of noise and heat almost knocked me backward. It was like a market day combined with a chariot race. A vast throng milled inside, some dancing, others eating, all drinking.

“Come!” I said. “Let us fight our way in!” I raised my shield and began wielding my sword, brandishing it right and left. I loved the way it felt. People scattered. Oh, the joys of warriorhood! Homer was right.

Behind me, Charmian was doing likewise, and Ptolemy yelled, “Onward, onward!” and cracked his whip. I knew then that I should have provided him with a mock chariot and steeds. It would have made a more imposing entrance, and allowed him to pretend better.