The Memoirs of Cleopatra (72 page)

“Now you are human again,” he said, kissing me. I realized he was as excited as I, that this whole evening had had the same effect on him.

Unable to control ourselves, we had to give in and make fast, unrefined love just to take the edge off our fever and reduce our desire to a normal, if still overheated, level.

Lying beside me in the dark, he said, “I see you decided to tell the world after all.” He was still trying to catch his breath.

“Yes,” I said, laying my head on his chest. My words were probably muffled. “It could be hidden no longer, nor had I any wish to.”

He kissed the top of my head, gently. “Then the fat is in the fire, as the common saying goes.”

“It isn’t the fat that is in the fire, it is us.” And it was true. This fire in the blood…when would it be banked, the down?

“Yes, much fire.” He sounded as if he did not, at this moment, much care. “Fire in Rome, at least. They do not like changes there, new factors, new contestants. I myself did not like it when Octavian arrived to claim his inheritance.”

“And set aside my son’s.” I paused. “For Caesar had a true son, not this adopted interloper.”

“Still, it was Caesar’s own will that named him,” said Antony. “I think he left you out of it from love, or as a tribute. He knew you could fight your own battles, with no help from him.”

My own battles. Yes. There was one more matter to be settled before I set sail. “Antony…” I hated to interject politics, but I must. “You must do something for me. My sister Arsinoe, in Ephesus, helped the assassins. You should have summoned her to answer charges, not me. They recognized her as Queen of Egypt, and it was she who persuaded Serapion, the governor of Cyprus, to yield my fleet to them. I have even received reports that in my absence she has been testing the political waters to see if there is any support remaining for her in Alexandria. And then there is a new pretender to be Ptolemy XIII, whom Caesar himself defeated, and who is as dead as it is possible to be. All these threaten my throne’s stability.”

“And?” he asked, his voice soft, still drowsy with amorousness.

“Destroy them.”

“Yes, my love.” He was caressing my shoulders.

I had to get his promise before he lost himself again. “Promise me. Execute them all.”

“Yes, my love. And I will restore Cyprus to you as well.” He knotted his hands in my hair and gently pulled my head toward his. I opened my mouth for his kiss.

That night, of all nights, will never fade from my memory. How often we made love, and how we made it, provide details that I can bring out in private to relive whenever I feel bereft, or sad, or even wish to divert my mind from pain. It was a gift from the gods, given rarely and seldom repeated. But it sealed my belief that, philosophers notwithstanding, the joy of the body can equal that of the mind and spirit.

When he took his leave, I was not sad. This time was over; it could not be prolonged and retain its perfection. There would be other times, in other places, and they too would be perfect in their own, different, way.

“Farewell, my general,” I said, kissing him on deck as the sun peeped above the horizon, painting the ship red-gold. The lamps in the rigging were burnt out, and the dawn revealed them as ordinary clay pots—not magic.

“Farewell, my queen.” He embraced me a moment, holding me close against his purple cloak. “I will follow as soon as I may.”

“A day is too long,” I said. “Would that you were waiting for me when I arrived.”

“Only if I could fly would that be possible,” he said. “And that power is not given to man.” He broke away, and stood for a moment apart from me. The rising sun gilded him, touching all the folds of his garment.

“Farewell,” I said, reaching out to touch him good-bye.

Alone in my cabin, I sank down in the bed to sleep at last. There had certainly been none during the night. I pulled the covers over my shoulders and closed my eyes, shutting out the sunlight streaming into the room.

I smiled. The banquet, with its costly gifts, had been an enormous expense, but as an investment, it was worth it. As Mardian and Epaphroditus were both fond of saying, it was part of the cost of doing business. But it had not cost a million sesterces, as the company believed. Vinegar cannot dissolve pearls. As an apt pupil in Alexandria, that fount of science, I knew that. Anything strong enough to dissolve a pearl would dissolve my stomach as well. No, the pearl was safe inside me, and could be recovered easily enough.

But for those who were not fortunate enough to have been educated in science in our Museion, well—they had believed it.

Statesmanship means being master of many areas, even unlikely ones. As I drifted off to sleep, I knew I had learned that from Caesar, and that he would be proud of me. Was proud of me. Perhaps Antony was right. He had known I could fight my own battles.

HERE ENDS THE FOURTH SCROLL
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“First Caesar and now Antony!” exclaimed Mardian. He raised his eyebrows. “Do you have some medical condition that makes you go into heat whenever a Roman comes over the horizon?”

“And only high-ranking ones,” put in Olympos dryly.

“No, they have to be more than high-ranking, they have to be absolute top dog—the rulers,” said Mardian. He looked at me, shaking his head and his finger.

“I think you’re cruel!” I said, only half annoyed. I had never minded teasing.

“No, we’re your friends. We’re only saying exactly what the Romans will say.” Olympos laughed. “To give you practice in defending yourself.”

We were sitting by one of the windows overlooking the harbor. It was winter, and a storm was approaching across the sea from the west. I could see its line of demarcation, dark and ragged, making its determined way toward us. I drew my wool stole around me, snuggling into its soft depths.

“Archelaus was a prince, but you wouldn’t have him,” sniffed Mardian. “So I think you’re right, Olympos, about their position. It’s the power aspect. Archelaus was royal but not powerful, and these Romans are powerful, but not royal. Yes, my dear, it’s power that excites you.”

“Well, what of it?” I bristled.

Olympos shrugged. “I suppose you wouldn’t be a Ptolemy if you didn’t lust after power.”

“On the other hand, maybe it’s married men,” ventured Mardian. “After all, Archelaus—”

“Oh, stop about Archelaus! I liked him, he was a fine man, but—”

“He wasn’t a married man, and he didn’t rule the world. Small failings! You’ve admitted the power attraction, now what about the married aspect?” said Olympos.

“The challenge, of course,” answered Mardian. He looked pained.

“You are awfully free in interpreting my motives,” I said, beginning to feel put upon.

“It’s our hobby,” said Mardian. “We had to do something to amuse ourselves while you were away.”

“Antony is coming to Alexandria, and I don’t want to hear anything about it out of you two!” I said. I meant it.

“Not us,” said Olympos with a straight face. “Not us. We won’t say a word.” Then they both collapsed in laughter.

After they had left, still laughing, to go to the stables, I sat and stared out at the darkening sky and harbor. What they had said was true enough. I was hard put to explain it even to myself. The political aspects of the situation made sense enough. I would be much more secure on my throne, and Egypt safer, with Caesar’s successor our guaranteed friend. But that could easily have been arranged through diplomatic channels. It wasn’t necessary to go to bed with him.

I could almost curse the joy of it. How much better—better?—it would have been had he turned out to be lackluster, rough, boring, dull, unsavory, even disgusting as a lover. Then I would have left with a shudder and no backward glance, reassured that a life of celibacy was preferable to disappointing amours.

But I was eager to continue it, I had to admit. In the beginning, I could have called the guards. Certainly the next night, and the next, I didn’t have to have anything to do with him. Now I had got myself in an awkward situation, to say the least.

A cold, spray-laden gust of wind whipped through the window. I moved away and went over to the brazier, which was giving off a feeble bit of heat, and warmed my hands over it.

Isis direct me! I thought. This must lead wherever it must lead; the only wrong lies in trying to hinder what must be and will be. The future is veiled from me; I see only what lies directly before me, that Antony will come to Alexandria, and soon.

Outside the storm was rising. There would be no sailing for weeks. But Antony would come by land.

“ ’Tis done, my lady,” said Mardian, standing before me with a report, which he dutifully presented. “Arsinoe is dead.”

His voice was flat. I broke the seal on the message and read its details: how Arsinoe had been dragged from the high altar at the Temple of Artemis, where she had claimed asylum, and killed, by Antony’s orders.

“Slain on the steps of the temple,” said Mardian primly.

I shivered. So his promise, made lightly in the dark, had been carried out. Caesar had never made such promises, nor would he have allowed himself to be persuaded so easily. In that instant I realized the power I had stumbled onto, in Antony’s most willing nature.

“She had no business claiming sanctuary,” I said. “Caesar had pardoned her once; she could not expect a second reprieve.” People had always taken advantage of that famous clemency. But even Caesar had punished second offenders.

“They have buried her beside the main street of Ephesus, in a tomb shaped like the Lighthouse of Alexandria,” said Mardian.

“She can be as Alexandrian as she wishes now,” I said. I went on reading. The pretender Ptolemy had also been killed, and the governor Serapion had fled to Tyre, but it had availed him nothing. He, too, was executed. Antony had done as he promised on all three counts.

Reports came about Antony’s activities in Syria, where Decidius Saxa was appointed governor. Next he was in Tyre, and then in Judaea, where he made his friend and ally Herod a prince. He was working his way southward, toward Egypt. Next he was in Ashkelon, then came word that he had set out, with his personal praetorian guard, across the desert of Sinai to Pelusium. It was there that, fourteen years earlier, he had led the cavalry charge that took the city for my father—and spared the Egyptian troops inside that my father had wanted to execute for treason. For that, the Egyptians had been fond of him.

He arrived in Alexandria on a clear, cold day. Messengers had come riding to announce his arrival, and I had ordered the eastern Gate of the Sun hung with garlands, the wide Canopic Way swept and decorated. Along the way I posted guards who would direct him to the palace, and ordered that the gates be flung open upon his arrival. Trumpeters would blow as he approached.

A great deal of time seemed to pass between the first trumpet blast at the eastern gate and the final one at the palace entrance. He had been welcomed warmly by the Alexandrians, and his march had been interrupted by crowds swarming around to greet him.

“Antony, keep your tragic Roman face for Rome!” I heard them shouting. “Bring your comic one here!”

And then he was coming up the wide stairs of the palace, taking long steps, hurrying toward me. His stride was sure and easy, his back straight, his curly-haired head high; he fairly glowed with strength and exuberance. There was no laurel wreath on his head, no helmet, no decorations, not even a soldier’s uniform. He stepped out in only his own pride and animal spirits, wearing everyday clothes. He could have been anyone, any common citizen, graced with the beauty of an athlete and a glorious future. My heart rose at the sight of him.

He stopped halfway up the stairs when he saw me, and a radiant smile spread over his face. He held out his arms in a gesture of joy and greeting; his cloak swirled around him. “My most gracious Queen!” he said. Then he slowly walked up the few remaining steps.

“My most welcome guest,” I said, extending my hand. He took it and pressed it to his lips, and I loved the feel of them.

“You return at last to the city that loves you,” I said, bringing him to stand beside me. From the high vantage point we could see much of Alexandria—the long, flat porticoes of the Gymnasion, the massive sprawl of the Museion, the solid Temple of Serapis, far away to the south. Beyond that, the waters of Lake Mareotis gleamed. “Do you remember?”

“I remember it all,” he said.

Everyone but Olympos was lined up to meet him: Mardian, Epaphroditus, the commander of my Macedonian Household Troops, the chief gymnasiarch, the director of the Museion, the chief priests of Isis and Serapis. And separate from them all, waiting in a chair of state, sat Caesarion, wearing his diadem.

Antony made his way over to him, and Caesarion said, “Welcome, cousin Antony”—for they were indeed distant cousins, in the fourth degree. How like Caesarion to have known that.

Antony bent his knee to him. “Thank you, cousin the King,” he said. Then he reached into the folds of his tunic and swiftly brought out something. I saw the guards flanking Caesarion stiffen, and tighten their grips on their swords.

“A lizard that haunted my headquarters in Tyre, Your Majesty,” he said, presenting a green, bumpy creature with rotating eyes. “I thought perhaps he would be a novelty in Alexandria.”

Caesarion smiled and stepped down to take the animal. As he moved, I saw Antony’s face register surprise. Then he masked it. “I hope you and he grow to be great friends,” said Antony. “Or she. I must confess I cannot tell the difference.”

Caesarion laughed like any six-year-old. “Neither can I,” he admitted. “But I will learn!”

“I am sure the lizards have no trouble,” said Antony. “Ask them.”

Later, all the welcoming done, the long speeches, the presentation of gifts, the settling of the personal guards, we sat alone in my large chamber. I had assigned him his own apartments in another of the palace buildings, so that he could have privacy and a place to conduct the inevitable business that would follow at his heels. But for now he was at leisure; dinner was over and it was yet too early to retire. The last vestiges of sunset were still staining the sky, but lamps had already been lit in all the chambers.

“I have dreamed of returning to Alexandria for a long time,” he said, looking out the window.

“Then why was it so difficult to persuade you?” I asked.

“Because Alexandria is no longer just a city; she is you. And everyone will know that I came not to see the Museion, or to visit the Lighthouse, but to see the Queen.”

“I was only teasing,” I said. “I know well enough what it means.” I remembered his exchange with Caesarion. “What do you think of my son? A strange look came over your face—it was fleeting, but I saw it.”

He shook his head. “The resemblance to Caesar is unsettling—especially when he moves. His gait is exactly the same. I thought—I thought never to see it again.”

“Yes, it is both a comfort and a source of pain.”

“No one could see him and fail to recognize him as Caesar’s son.”

“Not even Octavian?” I asked.

“Especially not Octavian,” said Antony.

“Antony, what am I to do?” The words tumbled out. “I cannot just stand by and see Caesar’s son shunted aside and neglected. I know there are no legal claims, but—you saw him move. You know.”

“Yes, I know.” He paused. “Truth is a strong lady. I know the day will come—”

“We must make it come!” I said fiercely. “Don’t you realize that fate holds only one set of keys, and that desire and determination hold the others? Destiny is not writ in stone, but waits to see how badly we wish an outcome.”

He looked startled. “I also know that the gates of fate cannot be forced.” He paused. “Caesar should have taught us that. All his genius, all his strength—felled by accident, chance, little men.” He took my hand, covered it with both of his. “I will do my best to see Caesarion succeed as Caesar’s heir. But for now he is King of Egypt, and your son. Not a bad lot.”

I smiled. He was right, of course. And what mother would wish her child to venture out in the dangerous, turbulent waters of Roman politics—lethal waters in some cases. Egypt was much safer. “You are tired,” I said. “I should not have bothered you with political questions.” I took his hand. “Come. You need to lie down.”

“I fear that, in your presence, that is not very restful.” He did look tired.

“But restorative,” I said.

And I led him into my bedchamber, which I had thought sealed forever to any man after Caesar. It was as much a way of freeing myself from the past as of easing Antony’s travel-stained weariness.

I took him in my arms, rolled across the wide bed with him, savoring the feel of our bodies turning against each other, and came to rest with his face next to mine on the pillow. And I saw, reflected in his dark eyes, all of me—as I was, had been, would be. He was my fate, as I was his, but we must struggle to shape it as we would. It was not necessarily obedient or benign.

I gave myself up to pure pleasure, pure sensation, thinking at its height that he who has known only this has not got a bad bargain in life. The meanest of my subjects might taste pleasure this keen—and probably did. The gods were kind that way.

Alexandria belonged to Antony. From the first moments, they fell in love with one another. The people loved the way he came to the city, as a private citizen, a guest, rather than storming ashore in full Roman regalia and authority, like Caesar. They were taken with his affable manner, his adoption of Greek dress—something Caesar would never have done—his attendance at lectures and plays, his approachability.

The admiration was mutual, for Antony seemed captivated with the city, and in a way I was jealous, as if he loved her better than me, more unreservedly. He laid aside his Roman persona, folded up his togas, dismissed his guards. He ate Egyptian and Greek food, wandered through the temples, roamed the streets, kept most un-Roman hours. He seemed, truly, to have been longing for Alexandria for a long time. It answered something in his nature.