The Memoirs of Cleopatra (81 page)

Another of the Leaves seemed even more specific:

Three—the Triumvirate! It seemed glaringly obvious. Egypt, the mighty Queen—me. And the Immortal King must be Caesar, the deified Caesar.

And yet another verse:

The Widow must be me, as Caesar’s true widow. Still another went:

I felt shaken to read these lines. The Comet…Caesar…more war and disaster, then a woman ruling….

There were other prophecies, too, one by an oracle called Hystaspes, predicting the violent transfer of power from Rome to a leader of the east. No wonder this was forbidden, upon pain of death, to circulate in Rome! There was a Prophecy of the Mad Praetor, which foretold a mighty Asian army and the enslavement of Rome; a Potter’s Oracle, and other sibylline verses.

But the most unmistakable were the verses about the Widow, and the Comet, and the Three, the Triumvirate. The eclipse had given notice: the woman, the widow, was soon to be called to her destiny. My hour had almost come. I had to be ready.

The heavens are kind; they seek to prepare us, if we just hear their messages.

Now another sentence called itself to my attention. As the mighty age is fulfilled, “You shall no longer be the Widow, you shall mate with the lion.”

Antony’s Hercules, symbol of the lion—Hercules statues always show him draped in a lionskin—was what was meant. The heavens decreed that we be as we had been, and would be again.

Now, as I sit in the state I am in, I wonder
why
the gods give us a little glimpse of our destiny, if they do not mean to tell it all. Half-truths can be crueler than outright lies. Olympos was right—they lead you astray.

News floated to us in tantalizing pieces, like driftwood coming across the seas. Antony and Ahenobarbus had reached Brundisium, which had closed its gates against them, fortified with one of Octavian’s garrisons. Antony cut the town off by constructing walls and ditches, and Octavian began moving troops down to counter him. Antony led a brilliant cavalry maneuver and captured an entire regiment and a half. Octavian called for help from Agrippa, asking him to mobilize the veterans and bring them south. Each saw the other acting as an enemy, and reacted accordingly.

It looked as if all-out war would soon erupt. That was good—good for Antony. The sooner they could grapple and fight, the better. For, as I had told him, Octavian would only grow stronger, unless Antony stopped him.

Then—silence.

Word was brought to me that Herod had arrived on my eastern frontier, at Pelusium. My commander there allowed him to transfer to a ship, and he sailed into my harbor in a ratty old vessel that looked near to sinking.

In preparation for his visit, I had consulted with Epaphroditus, and been reprimanded for my ignorance. I had thought to have a welcome banquet, but Epaphroditus said, “He cannot eat with you, nor can I—as you know.”

Yes, I knew that he preferred not to, citing his religion. But I had never pursued the reason why. “I won’t serve pork, if that’s what you mean!” I said defensively. I knew Jews did not eat pork; neither did Egyptians, for that matter.

Epaphroditus smiled. Over the years he had finally lost his stiff manner around me. “Oh, that’s the least of it,” he said. “If it were only just pork—or oysters! No, he cannot even sit with you to eat, because of all the regulations about how the vessels must have been cleaned, and what can touch each other, and what foods can be served together.”

“What am I to do? Never eat the entire time he is here?” This presented a diplomatic dilemma. I was supposed to honor him, as Antony’s friend, but how?

“I can send someone to help plan the menu, but I am afraid you will have to buy all new tableware and have your kitchens purified—er, ritually, I mean.” Then he had a thought. “On the other hand, maybe he won’t care. He isn’t a
real
Jew, you know.”

“What do you mean?” This was becoming more and more puzzling.

“His forebears were Idumaeans, and his mother was an—an Arab!” He looked disdainful. “Of course he calls himself a Jew, but I wonder how deep it goes. Politically, he
has
to—I mean, what other constituency does he have? But perhaps it’s something he sheds the moment he leaves the country.”

“But I won’t know that in advance.” I sighed. “I have to go on the assumption that he takes it seriously. And change my kitchen!”

“I will sound him out,” said Epaphroditus. “Believe me, I can tell. And in the meantime—well, I shall enjoy my first banquet in the palace, after how many years? About seven, I think. High time!”

“Then, dear friend, it is worth it!”

Herod was announced by his aide-de-camp, and assigned to his quarters. I wondered—too late—whether there were also ritual things that should have been done to his apartments to render them suitable. He would present himself in the late afternoon, his aide said.

I was awaiting him on what I always thought of as my “informal” throne; it was a throne, but plain and not much elevated. I wore a gold brocaded coat, the workmanship of his own country, partly out of flattery, and partly because it was stiff and heavy, standing far out from the body and disguising what lay beneath.

Late-afternoon shadows, thrown by the columns, were slanting across the floor when Herod walked in, his white and gold robes shining. He walked beautifully, and there was a smile of such genuineness on his face that no one could disbelieve it.

“Hail, renowned Queen of Egypt.” He looked at me, as if he were seeing a blinding sight. “All reports of your beauty fall far short. I am—I am speechless.”

And such was his expression, the tone of his voice, that you believed he was absolutely sincere.

“We greet you, Herod of Judaea, and welcome you,” I said.

“And the voice to go with the face!” He paused. “Forgive me for my boldness, Majesty.”

I already knew I had a pleasing voice; so again, it did not seem like blatant flattery. “Such boldness is easily forgiven,” I said. “I am pleased that you have arrived safely. You must tell me of the state of affairs in your country.” I stood up and descended from the throne. “Let us walk about the porticoes; you should see the harbor at sunset.”

It was possible to walk around the entire periphery of the main palace building, sheltered by colonnaded walks, and see the harbor from all vantage points. As we swept out of the room together—a flock of attendants keeping a discreet distance—I was aware of what a commanding figure he was. Tall, graceful, with the confidence and bearing of the born soldier and ruler. Out of the corner of my eye I assessed his face: he had the Arab beauty of features, the golden skin, dark melting eyes, thin lips, high nose, and thick eyelashes.

“So you are on your way to Rome?” I asked. “You have a long way yet to go.”

“It is imperative that I reach the Triumvirs. I escaped from Judaea by the skin of my teeth. I know Antony plans to make war against the Parthians who have overrun my country! I will do anything to help him.”

I could not help liking him. “You might perhaps do more good by staying here. I am in need of a good commander of my troops; I too am on alert and arming against the Parthians.”

He shook his head, but his demurral was more charming than someone else’s assent. “Antony will need me,” he said.

“You helped him—and me—once before,” I said. “When Gabinius restored my father to the throne.”

“Indeed. That is when I first met Antony; I was only sixteen.”

“And already commanding troops.”

“One comes of age early in Judaea,” he said self-effacingly. “But Antony was older then, and I remember how struck he was by you at the time. He commented many times on it.”

Now he was beginning to invent freely, I feared. But…could it have been true? Antony had alluded to it himself. That is the real power of people who know the tricks of ingratiating themselves; they mix the truth with what serves them best, and they make us
want
to believe it—we do their work for them. We urge them on, asking for more.

“Ah, well, that was long ago.” I stopped as we reached the outside, and pointed out the harbor spreading out before us. My pride swelled, as it always did, when I surveyed my jewel, my possession: Alexandria.

“What a sight!” he said.

The sun was burnishing a path across the tossing sea and the calmer, flat waters within the harbor. The sails of the multitude of ships were painted golden red as they rocked at anchor.

“The greatest harbor in the world,” he said. “What I would not give for such a harbor in Judaea. All we have is miserable little Joppa. Still,” he hastened to say, “it is better than nothing. At least we have an outlet to the sea.”

“Every inch of land there is so contested,” I observed, more to myself than to him. “How many lives have been lost fighting over Jerusalem? Yet it is not special in terms of architecture, or location, or works of art.”

“I will make it so!” he said fiercely. “Provided I am given the chance. The chance that only Antony can grant.”

Only Antony. We waited to see what he would do. Herod and I, for different reasons.

“First you must reach Italy. I will provide you with a ship. He is not in Rome, though, but in Brundisium. My news is old, but the last I heard, he and Octavian were facing each other there. By now they are most likely at war.”

He groaned. “I flee war in Judaea only to find it in Italy.”

“We are not at war here,” I reminded him. “Perhaps it would be wiser to wait, stay in Egypt. Command my troops, and when Antony comes east again—”

“No, I must go now. They must not reach any agreement without me!”

As well he knew, his presence could be very persuasive.

Thanks to Epaphroditus, my welcoming banquet was a complete success. The menu omitted all the things hateful to a practitioner of the Jewish religion, and the table was set with newly acquired brightly patterned plates from Rhosus, in Syria—unsullied by forbidden foods.

Herod had changed clothes—for a near-refugee he seemed to have brought an extensive wardrobe—and was now in royal purple, with a diadem. He was a prince, and wanted that made clear. He and his loyal companions were placed in the appropriate places indicating their rank, and acquitted themselves well. They were delightful dinner companions, conversant with all the fashions in poetry and art, dining and entertainment. Politics, being an embarrassment, was not discussed. But Epaphroditus relentlessly attempted to pin him down.

“And so Judaea is still in the grip of the Parthians,” he said, shaking his head. “May it soon be liberated.” He paused. “And when it is, you must immediately cleanse and restore the Temple!”

Herod turned those liquid eyes on him. “Oh, I plan to do more than that,” he said quietly. “It is time that the Temple of Jerusalem be rebuilt in accordance with its importance.”

“Its importance?” asked Mardian, frowning. “Forgive me, I don’t understand.”

“The Temple is holy,” said Herod.

“So are all temples,” said Mardian, with a forbearing smile. “Our temple to Serapis, for example—”

“The god Serapis did not give explicit instructions for the construction of his temple here,” said Herod, his mask of pleasingness starting to slip. “Ours did.”

Mardian laughed. “Gods have their ways.”

“We believe there is only one god,” said Herod. “And he gave us instructions.”

“But ours—” an Egyptian started to say, but I stopped him with a look.

“The day after tomorrow is the Sabbath,” said Epaphroditus. “Surely you will wish to come with me to the worship at our synagogue—the largest synagogue in the world—since you are so devout.”

Herod smiled, and nodded.

“What is a synagogue?” someone farther down the table asked.