The Memoirs of Cleopatra (80 page)

The next news that came was shocking, even to me, and I prided myself on anticipating the worst behavior to which someone could sink. Octavian, in order to win Sextus to his side, had married Sextus’s aunt! She was named Scribonia, was a notorious shrew, and was many years older than Octavian.

I sank down on a stool and began to laugh and cry at the same time. While Antony would give only the strictest, proper response to Sextus’s overtures, Octavian was ready to make off with the aunt to disarm Sextus.

“They say she’s very tall and bony,” said Mardian, shaking his head.

“Well, just because Octavian marries someone does not mean he actually performs his marriage duty,” I said, remembering Claudia. “So now he’s been married to a child, and to an old lady—for political reasons.”

The situation was funny, but his ruthlessness was anything but.

Summer continued, the most glorious summer in recent memory; the sea wind was as deliciously cool as alabaster inside a shaded temple, and the sun as beneficent as the gods could make it. Many evenings I invited Olympos’s scholar friends from the Museion to come to the palace and—if this is not too inappropriate a word—entertain us. Caesarion was becoming interested in mathematics, and I hoped this would serve as a pleasant way of learning for him. They all were kind to him, never seeming to tire of explaining things. But he was especially taken with the leading astronomer, a young man named Diodorus, who seemed equally at home with older scholars and a seven-year-old boy.

In the evening, near twilight, we would gather in a part of the palace that had rooms especially suitable for our group; its wide windows opened onto the harbor, and the wall paintings repeated the scene, so it looked as if we were surrounded on all sides by open air. The soft breezes entering the room further enhanced that illusion.

At these gatherings we ate very little, but there was plenty of fine wine to be passed around. Olympos accused me of trying to hold a Greek
symposium
, but I pointed out that this did not follow a dinner, that I did not want everyone to get drunk, and that women were present, unlike a true
symposium
.

“You ought to make them drink more deeply,” he said. “They would start quarreling over the theories of the circumference of the earth, and whether the equinoxes are precessing, and you would see how petty academics really are. The men you would expect to be the most enlightened are capable of the nastiest fights—worse than gladiators! Men have died defending their theory of the armillary sphere.” He laughed lightly.

“Now you are revealing your own deep-seated cynicism,” I told him. “Besides, since Antony left, Alexandria has become quite sober.” Or at least I had.

“That’s because the city is in mourning for his departure,” he said. “He and Alexandria made a very good fit.”

Antony…Alexandria…These evenings served to take my mind off the ever-present concern about what was happening in Italy, as well as my own condition. The floating gowns were still an effective disguise, but I had not yet addressed the practical problems awaiting me.

Diodorus announced that he had a demonstration for all of us, but particularly for Caesarion, and it would have to be fully dark to work. “I will show how the earth and the moon both make shadows, cast by the sun, and thereby enable us to measure the size of the earth itself. And I will also show how eclipses happen.”

The older men made disparaging noises, but Diodorus held up his hands. “I realize you know all the theories, but can you devise a model to illustrate them? That is what I wish to exhibit.” He was a thin little man, who reminded me of a grasshopper—he seemed to jump from place to place, and no sooner land than jump again. He bent down to address Caesarion directly. “I want you to watch carefully,” he said.

Then he rushed away to prepare a flare, backed by a sheet of polished metal to serve as a giant mirror, and had servants lower spheres on lines from the ceiling, or suspend them between columns.

“In the meantime, drink, drink, drink!” he said. “It will make it easier to believe the demonstration! You won’t notice the flaws, or see the strings.”

“Not you,” I said to Caesarion, saying no to the wine. “Nor I.”

While we were waiting for it to grow fully dark, Diodorus asked me what I was planning for the upcoming solar eclipse.

“I did not know one was coming,” I admitted.

“Well!” His chirping voice sounded truly surprised. “You
have
been preoccupied, if you didn’t know about the eclipse. It’s the most important event in the sky this year.”

Yes, preoccupied. What a superficial way to describe what I had been, and still was. “I suppose so,” I said. “When is it to come? I have never seen one.”

“In fifteen days,” he said. “And of course you haven’t seen one. There has not been one of this magnitude for fifty years. Oh, it will be an event! The scientists will be standing by to study it. The sky darkens, and the animals think it’s night. A hush comes…the temperature falls. It’s quite dramatic!”

“But how dark does it get?”

“Like night!” he said. Then he admitted, “Of course I have never seen one either, so I have to go by what has been written about it. I can hardly wait to see it!”

An eclipse. What could it mean? I would have to consult the royal astrologers. And doubtless foreign astrologers would make the journey here as well.

He bolted off to light the fire and begin his demonstration.

“Now pretend this fire is the sun, pouring forth its light and heat…”

He went on to point out the earth—a wooden ball hanging between two posts—and the moon, and pulled strings to make them pass each other so that one at a time their shadows fell across each other. When the “moon” passed between the “earth” and “sun,” it caused a “solar” eclipse, and when the “earth” passed between the “sun” and “moon,” its shadow caused a “lunar” eclipse.

“And do you see how the shadow is curved?” His voice rose in excitement. “That is the curvature of the sphere of the earth. Now, by measuring it and figuring out how far away the moon is, we can calculate the size of the earth itself. Do you understand?” He turned suddenly to Caesarion, who was watching all this intently.

“Yes, of course,” he said with great dignity. “But the problem would be in calculating exactly how far away the moon is.”

Diodorus was surprised at the clear, concise answer. And so was I.

That night, as he said good night, Caesarion said, “Perhaps I should be an astronomer. Or a mathematician.”

Both of them safe occupations, posing no threat to anyone. “Perhaps,” I said. “It depends on what fate calls you to.” Certainly he could be King of Egypt as well as a mathematician. No conflict there.

Now that I was alerted, I looked forward eagerly to the day of the eclipse. Each night I watched as the moon grew smaller, waning away like a melting lump of pale wax. A solar eclipse would occur only when the moon was completely dark.

Diodorus had built it up so much that Caesarion could barely sleep, awaiting the great event. Several times he came to my chamber in the middle of the night, saying, “I can’t sleep!” Once he said, “Tell me again the story about Artemis and the moon, and how she guides it across the sky! When there’s a solar eclipse, does that mean she and Apollo and his chariot of the sun have run into each other? Have they had a crash?” And he would laugh.

I put my arm around him and wrapped a light blanket over his shoulders. “You know that Artemis and Apollo and the sun chariot are just a story,” I said. “It’s how the poets describe something as beautiful and mysterious as the moon and sun.” Since he understood the mathematics of it, he would have to relinquish his belief in the old tales.

“But isn’t there really an Apollo?” His voice sounded very small.

“Well, yes…but he doesn’t actually ride a chariot across the sky with four horses pulling it. He has more to do with creativity—with music and all the bright things of life—of which the sun is only one.”

“Oh.” He leaned against me, putting his arms around me. “Why have you gotten so fat?” he asked innocently. “I don’t see you eating much.”

He was the only person allowed to wrap his arms around my waist, and there were no puffy, air-filled gowns to divert his attention. I was taken by surprise, especially since it was the middle of the night. So all I could say was, “Because there’s a baby in there.”

“There
is?
” His voice rose to a squeak. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “We will just have to wait to find out.”

“When? When?”

“Oh, sometime in the autumn. Are you pleased?”

“Oh yes! Everyone else has a brother or sister. I’ve always wanted one.”

How simple it was for him.

The great eclipse day arrived, and we had a gathering on the highest palace terrace, out in the open, affording the widest view of the horizon. As if to challenge the very idea of any vulnerability, the sun rose hot and yellow, pouring out ferocious light and heat on the sea and land. It burned my arms and made me retire under a canopy. Everyone put on a wide-brimmed hat and had to squint, the light was so fierce. We all felt a little foolish, since we had no proof—besides mathematical calculations—that anything at all would happen. Several astrologers were standing by, ready to interpret the occurrence, consulting with each other, arguing.

“I tell you, the moon is female, and the sun male,” said one. “So when the moon blots out the sun, it means a woman is going to rule, or destroy, a man.”

“But
what
man, and
what
woman? Is it a prediction for some shoemaker with an overbearing wife? Or does it mean something political?”

“Something political, of course!” the first man snorted. “The heavens do not concern themselves with the events of the lives of common people.”

“But everyone has a horoscope,” a third astrologer protested. “So the heavens rule everyone’s lives.”

“But an event of this magnitude—it’s to warn us of greater things than a shoemaker and his domestic troubles. The heavens may guide lesser happenings, but they do not trouble themselves to advertise them.”

“Well, there are prophecies about a woman of the east ruling Rome,” said the middle astrologer.

“Perhaps this confirms it,” the third said.

“Or perhaps it’s all just a lot of nonsense,” said Olympos, speaking directly into my ear.

I turned to him. “Is there anything you believe in?” I asked. I had heard of the prophecies, too, and meant to have them copied out and brought to me. But I would not admit that to him.

“You know well enough what I believe in,” he said. “I believe in the strength of the human body, and in its ability to heal itself, given half a chance. I believe in a good night’s rest, and the importance of a bath. Oh, and I believe that hot peppers upset the digestion. And I especially believe that listening to all those prophecies is very bad for a person’s health. It is apt to lead him astray.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Think of all the people who have risen higher than they ever would have, because they believed in a prophecy about themselves.”

“Doubtless repeated to them every night by their adoring mothers,” he said. “Just who are these people? And no cheating with gods and goddesses.”

I had to think. “Well, what about Alexander and the oracle at Siwa?”

“He was already a king, already a conqueror. What difference did the oracle make?”

“You are such a scoffer!”

He shook his head and indicated the arguing astrologers. “Someone has to be.”

The calculated moment approached, and then passed. It seemed as if nothing had happened. But gradually we perceived a dimming of the light—no, not a dimming. Rather, a peculiar sort of dilution of the light, as if it grew thinner and thinner without actually growing dark. As I looked out on the white stones of the Lighthouse, and to the boats, it was as if I were looking through a veil, but it was so subtle it did not distort the colors. It was the oddest light I had ever seen.

There were still shadows, but although the contrast was sharp, that attenuated light almost seemed to suck away the air we needed to breathe, rarefying everything.

It was not like night, no, nothing like it. And whoever had predicted that had not thought the matter through. The sun continues to light the sky for a while after it descends below the horizon, and it did so all the more now, since it was almost at its zenith. The sky around it stayed blue. It is true that the birds stopped flying, puzzled by the change in light. But the eclipse did not last long enough to let animals creep off to dens and go to sleep.

As gradually as it had crept across the sun, the eclipse passed away. And we were left standing, blinking, in the renewed sunlight, which seemed oddly thick and meaty, robust and yellow.

A few nights later I secreted myself in a private corner, dismissed Charmian and Iras, and pored over the prophecies, which I had obtained quietly. Regardless of Olympos’s mockery, I felt that the eclipse was telling me something, if I only had eyes to see. High events of state were taking place now in Rome, there had not been such an eclipse in years—what could be plainer? And it was not an eclipse of the moon, when the earth cast a shadow, but the moon blotting out the sun—of course it pertained to a woman, as the astrologers had stated.

One prophecy, a long prediction from the
Sibylline Leaves
, a collection of eastern verses, might refer to her—to
me
. Especially two of its verses: