The Memoirs of Cleopatra (87 page)

Now my side was uncomfortable and I twisted onto my stomach. Oh, let me sleep! It was I who was tethered—to the bed, shackled, unable to find a position that suited me, unable to sleep, unable to get up and do anything else—unable, above all, to stop thinking.

The cool air flowed over my back, which was sweaty. I had worked myself up into a state of agitation. The truth was I did not want my world disturbed, dry and ordered as it was. I ran it well, and it repaid me handsomely. Nights like tonight—restive, hungry, questioning—came to me only rarely, and were a small price to pay for my lack of an intimate companion. Nights could be like this, but the days were mine entirely. I deferred to no one, never had to compromise my plans or accommodate anyone’s quirks or demands. I had quite got used to it, and would be loath to give it up.

I turned over again. Was there no way to find rest? The bed, and the bedding, felt like an instrument of torture. I had wrinkled and twisted the covers as badly as a spinning crocodile caught in them.

You know he will send for you. What will you do?

HERE ENDS THE FIFTH SCROLL
.

I stood on the very edge of the shaded terrace of my quarters in the palace at Antioch, looking out over the river Orontes, which flowed directly beneath. Before me stretched a wide, flat, fertile plain to the distant seashore. The capital of the Seleucid dynasty, the once-great rival of the Ptolemies: It was not so fine as Alexandria, but then nothing was.

The Seleucids had gone now, vanquished by the Romans, their land turned into a province by Pompey—an object lesson for me. But they had never had my opportunities to hand: no Roman leaders with amorous proclivities passing through, no queens of the right age and temperament. We use what we have, and I had been blessed indeed by what fate had sent my way.

We Ptolemies had held this city briefly; my ancestor Ptolemy III had conquered this territory, all the way up to the Euphrates, and almost to India. Now I might be able to regain by personal influence what they had failed to keep by war.

A cool breeze from the sea was sweeping across the plain; Antioch was renowned for its pleasant setting. On the other side of the city glowered the tall peak of Mount Silpius, and in early morning its ragged shadow lay across the streets. I could see the villas of the wealthy built into the side of the mountain, spots of white against the deep green of the forested slopes. Yes, a supremely agreeable spot.

I was in the old palace of the Seleucids—a huge building on an island in the fast-running Orontes. I had demanded, and received, my own quarters here.

For Antony had indeed “sent for me,” but unlike his earlier summons, this one was couched entirely in personal terms.

“Come to me. I do not order you as an ally, I beg as one who wants you. Bring our children—I pray you, let me see them,” he wrote.

This letter had come in short order after Octavia had left—indeed, she might well have still been traveling when Antony wrote it. He had betaken himself to Antioch and settled in to prepare for the Parthian venture; he would winter there and in the spring set out with his legions.

I would go to Antioch, but this time not in costume. I would go with a long list of demands, which he would agree to, or lose any hope of having Egypt for an ally. I knew he would not want to turn his attention to actual military action to secure us; that would further delay his main venture, not to mention wasting precious time and money. He needed us, and he needed us to be quiet; he could not afford to turn his back on a potential enemy while righting a real one.

I did not bring the children. If he wanted to see them, there was only one way: he would marry me. And publicly, not like Caesar in a secret rite at Philae. He would take me as his wife, in the east—who cared about Rome?—and acknowledge our children as legitimate. There would be no more nonsense about whether it was legal in Rome. I had heard enough of that excuse from both Caesar and Antony.

And he would cede lost ancestral territories to Egypt—yes, he would bestow Roman holdings on me as a wedding gift. I had no need of jewelry or such as a token; territory would do nicely.

And if he did not agree to
all
these demands, then I would leave forthwith, without spending any time alone with him. Thus I had decreed to myself, which made it acceptable for me to go to him.

As for my own feelings—I prayed morning and evening to Isis to give me the strength not to let them sway me.
When I see him again
, I asked,
let me not disgrace myself. Let me see him only as someone with whom I must deal politically. Let me not give way to any emotion unless he agrees to my demands
.

I had not yet met him. I had been at the palace for two days, while each of us waited for the other’s summons. I had no intention of calling for him, even if I had to spend a month there without seeing him. In fact, tomorrow I would go sightseeing by myself in this famous city; it was high time.

The shadows were lengthening, reaching to the palace gates. Beyond the horizon, the sunset stained the sky red; birds winged their way home.

I was about to withdraw into my apartments when a servant approached, handing me a note. At last. I unfolded it and read it in the fast-falling light.

“I would be honored if you would dine with me in my apartments tonight,” was all it said.

The boy was waiting, his head cocked.

“You may tell Lord Antony that the Queen accepts,” I said.

Now I stood still for just an instant before the tall cedar and bronze-studded doors to Antony’s chamber. The Seleucids had certainly liked ostentatious decoration, I thought—not that we Ptolemies should talk. But we had better taste. It was hard to associate Antony with a door like that one, but perhaps it was best that I meet him again in a place that held no memories. It would help to keep me firmly in the present, help me to remember what I must do.

The door swung open, revealing a huge chamber, its ceiling so high it was lost in gloom. Gigantic beams of ornamented wood, gleaming with the same decorative bronze studs as the door, held up the ceiling. Far at one end, on a carved chair, sat a figure who, large as he was, was dwarfed by the monumental size of his surroundings.

It had been almost four years since I had seen him—the same amount of time that had passed after Caesar’s death before I went to Tarsus. What if I had suddenly seen Caesar again at that time? The impact, a meeting after long parting, was much more overwhelming than I had expected. And at the same time it was much less, for it was just a man, after all, sitting in a chair.

He rose. His cloak fell in graceful folds behind him. He extended his arm in welcome. “Greetings, my most beloved Queen,” he said in the voice that swept all else away for me.

“Greetings, most noble Triumvir Antonius,” I replied. I stepped forward and let him take my hand. He kissed it, but awkwardly. There were too few people for this vast chamber, and yet there were still too many.

“Go now.” He waved the few attendants away. “I will call when we are ready to dine.”

As they padded away, I knew that only made it worse. We were two tiny figures in this empty space that seemed designed to hold an army—an army mounted on elephants. It magnified everything; I fancied that our voices echoed.

Part of me looked at him as if at a stranger, while the other part found him so familiar that it was pretentious to behave formally to him. It was so odd I found myself at a loss as to what to say.

“Here. Sit,” he said roughly, shoving a chair toward me. He must be feeling exactly the same. He settled himself back into his chair, then put his hands on his knees and stared at me.

He looked older. In the first few minutes that we see someone after a long absence, we can detect all the changes in their faces; after that it fades, blending into our memories of how they
did
look. His hair was not as dark; it showed streaks of gray in spots, although it was still thick. His face was not smooth as before, but had added lines at the corners of the eyes and along the cheeks. The changes did not detract from his appearance, but made him look more of a commander.

“You are more beautiful than ever,” he finally said, and I almost laughed. He must have been going through the same recital of my changes in his mind, and to negate them had blurted out the opposite.

“You must have forgotten how I looked before,” I said.

“No. Never!” He looked so earnest as he said it that this time I did laugh. “I swear—”

“No need for that,” I said quickly. “Never swear to something you cannot prove.” I knew I must look different, too, but my mirror assured me the long slide had not yet begun. “You sent for me. I am here,” I said, shifting back to the formal. I must not forget my purpose in coming, get caught up in a reunion.

“And the children? When may I see them?” He was diffident, polite.

“I did not bring them.” I watched the disappointment cross his face. “Perhaps you can see them in Alexandria. And how are your other children? Am I to see
them?
”

“No, I—no, they are in Rome.”

“Even the one not yet born?”

“On its way to Rome.” He could not keep from smiling, and then broke into a laugh.

I tried not to join him, but couldn’t help it, and started laughing myself. “Is it—and its mother—to stay in Rome?” I finally asked.

“Yes. Forever,” he said.

“And you?” To come to this point, and so quickly! I had not meant to.

“I stay here.”

“Forever?”

“That depends.”

“On Parthia?”

“Partly. And partly on what happens elsewhere,” he said.

“You cannot stay away from Rome forever,” I said, “for that would abdicate all power to Octavian.”

“Please refrain from offering me political advice in the first few minutes,” he said testily.

“Yes, I know, you’ve done without it for four years now. And seen your authority and power eroded. You have less now than you did when you sailed away to Tyre.”

“I’ll not quarrel!” he said, his voice rising. “Not tonight! I won’t!”

“Tomorrow, then?” I could not help baiting him.

“No, not tomorrow either! Stop it!” he bellowed, holding his hands against his temples.

At the sound, one of the servitors poked his head in a side door, but Antony waved him away. “Not yet!” he yelled.

“But you haven’t even asked me if I am hungry. Perhaps I do not wish to delay the dinner,” I said. “We can certainly talk while we eat.”

“Oh, yes, I am sorry—” He seemed so pliant and eager to accommodate. Perhaps while he was in this mood was the best time to strike.

But not yet, part of me thought. I am not ready. What I really meant was, I am not ready to part if the answer is no. I would like a day or so first—having come all this way. A day or so to reacquaint myself with this man, the father of my children, after all.

The dinner was served straightway, a flock of attendants bringing an absurd number of dishes and courses for only two people. This region was rich in agriculture, and bulging stuffed vegetables, honey-sweet grapes, and aromatic roasted nuts turned the seasoned fish and delicate oysters into a feast worthy of the gods. Fine white wine from nearby Laodicea-on-the-Sea swirled in our chased silver goblets. Antony, stretched out on his couch, ate heartily but silently.

Finally he leaned over and said, “You said we could talk while we ate, but you have said nothing.”

“Forgive me,” I said. “I seem to have no thoughts worthy of repeating.”

He smiled and took a long drink from his goblet, his tanned throat moving as he swallowed. I quickly looked away, down at the dark marble floor. “That I find hard to believe. Come, you are celebrated for your conversation. Speak.”

What I had to say he would not find so amusing. But later. “Tell me of your preparations for the war….”

And he talked on gladly about the plans, pieced together from Caesar’s, to invade Parthia from the north, through Armenia, avoiding the disastrous open plains that had been Crassus’s undoing. He talked about his lieutenants, in whom he had high confidence, including the recently acquired, fiery Ahenobarbus. As he spoke, his face grew flushed with excitement. He wanted this venture very badly, was longing to get started. All the better for me.

Like all soldiers, he seemed to have no fears that he would lose—or, worse yet, die. Would he have been so eager to go if he thought this time next year he might be in a grave? Would he hurry it on so? Yet a very wise man had once explained to me the Principle of the Ninety-nine Soldiers. It went thus: If a hundred soldiers were preparing for battle the next day and a seer told them that without fail ninety-nine were slated to die, each man would say to himself, “Too bad about those other ninety-nine men.” I knew that he was right—nothing else could explain soldiers. Now Antony was illustrating it.

The meal over, he casually escorted me back to his private chambers—as I knew he would. He did not invite, or put it into words, he just drifted there in a natural manner, talking all the while about his troops and equipment. Once inside, he adroitly dismissed his servants, without making a point of it, and then we were alone, the door closed.

He flung off his cloak eagerly and came over to me, putting his hands on my shoulders. He bent down and attempted to kiss me, saying, “I have waited for this moment for four years, always—”

But I twisted away, keeping his lips from mine. I could not let him kiss me, or I would be lost. My resolution would dissolve at his touch. I pushed his hands off and stepped back.

“And what have you waited for, for four years?” I asked. “To resume our old life? But we cannot resume it. Two great changes have occurred: I have borne you children. And you have become the husband of Octavian’s sister; your political partner is now your brother-in-law. You chose her when you were free to choose elsewhere.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Then you are stupid, and I know you are not stupid. You are spoiled, always getting your own way like some pampered prince of a minor kingdom, acting without thinking, and always being saved. You ran riot in Rome, but Caesar came back in time and saved the situation. You let Fulvia make a ruinous war for you, but she died in time to save you from retribution. You let Octavian best you time and again—and who will save you this time?”

“What has that to do with us?” He seemed to hesitate between being confused and frustrated.

“Just this. We can resume a life together”—his face lightened—“under these conditions. You will marry me. Publicly. You will divorce Octavia. You will recognize our children as legitimate. You will award certain territories to me, to Egypt.”

“And what, pray tell, might those be?” His voice was cold.

“My lost ancestral territory of Phoenicia, Judaea, parts of Syria—and Cyprus, which the assassins appropriated and has not yet been returned as you promised.”

I expected him to laugh and say no. Instead he thought for a moment and said, “Judaea I cannot grant. Herod is my friend, going back even before you. He is a valuable and loyal ally; I would not turn him into an enemy.”

“Would you rather have me as an enemy?”

“You could never be my enemy.”

“If you do not grant me these things, I swear I will be. Egypt will cause you trouble if you attempt a war in the east, unless—”