The Memoirs of Cleopatra (9 page)

These were ideas, formless at the time, but just beginning to reveal themselves to me. The Romans were not merely a force against which we were helpless, but were torn by factions and rivalries of their own, which could be turned to our advantage. I saw that our adversary had holes in his armor. Father had successfully exploited one—with Egyptian money. One must always have money.

Father made it clear that the Romans were welcome to stay in Alexandria—for a short time. Then they should discreetly remove themselves. But first there was to be a Dionysian festival to celebrate the King’s restoration to the throne. He saw himself as the descendant of that mysterious god of wine, of joy and drama and life itself. In the great festivals of Bacchus—the god’s Roman name—he sought release and ecstasy and belonging: all the things he could not find in Alexandria in the broad daylight, dazzling though it is in that city of cities.

In readying myself for the formal procession through the streets, I was acutely aware that I would be the object of intense curiosity. I, hitherto the third child and practically unnoticed, was now the heir. Everyone would want to assess me; all eyes would be upon me. I went through anguish in choosing my costume, having my hair dressed. And when it was finished, I knew I would look in the mirror and have the answer that had been so long in coming. Was I beautiful? Pleasing? Special? Would a timely jar of beauty from Persephone open itself for me?

I settled on a hairstyle that hung down around my shoulders. I was still young enough to wear a girl’s hairdo, and I knew that my hair was pretty—no sense in hiding it before its time. It was almost black, thick and shiny, with a slight curl to it. And I chose for my dress a thin white linen, knowing that nothing becomes black hair like a white dress. I wanted to wear the tight style of older Egypt, since my shape was slim, but Grecian style fitted the occasion better, with all its floating folds.

At least I no longer had to bind my breasts; the death of Berenice had ended that. I could let my body speak for itself. And my breasts—even in my critical eyes, I could find no fault in them.

As I finished dressing, I saw Arsinoe reflected in the mirror behind me—Arsinoe, who had all the conventional beauty I longed for.

I moved the mirror so her image vanished. And then I studied myself, tried to imagine a stranger seeing me. And I was not displeased.

If I saw her, I thought, I would want to know her better.

I shrugged, and put the mirror down, as I bent to select the appropriate jewelry. Perhaps that was the best verdict anyone could reasonably hope for:
If I saw her, I would want to know her better
.

Now, as we rode at a stately ceremonial pace through Alexandria, I watched the crowd lining both sides of the wide streets. The procession had begun at the palace, then wound its way past Alexander’s tomb, past the long, colonnaded Gymnasion, past the Library, the Temple of Serapis, the artificial hill of the park of Pan, the theater—all the monuments of our great city. The vast, excitable crowd today was cheering, climbing on roofs to see us, shinnying up columns, straddling statues. Since we were following in the wake of Dionysus and his wineskins, by the time we came upon them, the people were flushed and merry and forgiving. These were the very same people who had rioted when a Roman soldier accidentally killed a sacred cat—unstable, violent. Today they were our devoted partisans. Tomorrow?

Far behind us, to signify the end of the procession, walked a man costumed as Hesperus, the evening star.

At length we reached our destination: the Stadium, transformed into a pavilion where the festivities would take place. The normal open-air field had been roofed over with a lattice of ivy- and grape-entwined beams, supported by columns shaped like Dionysus’s sacred wand. The brilliant afternoon sunlight filtered through the green leaves as we entered the cave of the god, to the rites of drunkenness and ecstasy.

Or, rather, my father entered it. As a devotee of the god, he took it upon himself to seek union with Dionysus by way of wine. While the rest of us sampled the new vintage from the vineyards of the Canopic branch of the Nile, Egypt’s finest, Father gulped it. Then, as the dancing began—for actors and musicians were sacred to the god, and inspired by him—Father seemed to go into a trance. He had put on the sacred ivy wreath, and now pulled out his flute and started playing melodies.

“Dance! Dance!” he ordered everyone around him. The Egyptians obeyed, but the Romans looked on, appalled.

“I said dance!” the King demanded. He waved his pipes toward one of the visiting Romans, an army engineer.

“You! There! Demetrius! Dance!”

Demetrius looked as though he had been ordered to jump into a malarial swamp. “I do not dance,” he said, and turned his back and walked away.

“Come back here!” The King attempted to catch the fold of his tunic, but tripped instead, and his ivy wreath slipped over one eye. “Oh!”

A group of Gabinius’s soldiers was snickering. I felt deep shame for my father. I knew he was merely engaging in the time-honored behavior of the Bacchanalia, but those rites had been banned in dignity-conscious Rome. To the Romans, this was just a comic, drunken spectacle.

“So that’s why he’s nicknamed
Auletes—
the flute-player,” said a voice nearby. I saw it belonged to Marcus Antonius—or Marc Antony, as he was commonly called.

“Yes, but the people of Alexandria gave him the name in affection,” I said stiffly. “
They
understand about the rites of Dionysus.”

“So I see.” He gestured around at the crowd.

Here was another prissy, judgmental Roman—so proper, while imposing themselves on the rest of the world! I glared at him, until I saw that he himself was drinking from a silver goblet. “At least you don’t consider your lips too good to touch Egyptian wine,” I said. As I spoke, he held out his goblet for a costumed server to refill it.

“Quite passably good,” he said, sipping it. “I’ve a great fondness for wine; I make it my business to test the vintage wherever I go. I’ve had Chian wine, Rhaetic, the undrinkable Coan and Rhodian, and the incomparable Pramnian.” He sounded like a father naming his children.

“Is the Pramnian really all it is said to be?” I asked, as he seemed so happy to be talking about it.

“Indeed. It is honey-sweet; they don’t squeeze it from the grapes of Lesbos, they let it ooze out of its own accord.”

He really was quite relaxed and unpretentious; I found myself liking this Roman. He was handsome, too, in a bullish sort of way: thick neck, wide face, and a frame bulging with muscles.

“Yes, I understand Dionysus,” he said, more to himself than to me. “I also like actors. In Rome I prefer them to the senators!”

He broke off as the King came reeling through the crowd, chased by women dressed as Maenads, pursuing the god, shouting and laughing.

“Dancing is considered immoral in Rome,” he said. “That is why Demetrius refused to dance. Please inform the King of that, when he’s—not the god any longer, but returns to himself.”

How diplomatic of him to avoid saying
when he’s sober again
. I did like this young Roman, who seemed so very un-Roman.

But he did not stay in Alexandria long; within a month he and Gabinius had departed, although the three legions were left behind to keep order. The one Roman who should have gone with them stayed—Rabirius, the infamous financier. He was determined to recoup his loan directly from the Egyptians, and forced the King to appoint him finance minister. Then he proceeded to extort huge sums from the populace. The Alexandrians, always with a mind of their own and virtually never subservient, drove him away. Father was lucky that they did not sweep him off the throne again in the process.

In Rome, both Gabinius and Rabirius had to stand trial before the Senate: Gabinius for disregarding the sacred Sibylline oracle and the decree of the Senate, and Rabirius for serving in an administrative post under a foreign king. Gabinius was forced to go into exile, but the crafty Rabirius got off.

Without his commanding officer, the young Marc Antony transferred his allegiance and services to a new general: Julius Caesar.

My life now took another of its abrupt turns; from acting younger than I was, and keeping myself hidden, I must now do the opposite. I must take my place alongside Father at all his official appearances—especially as he no longer had a Queen to stand beside him—and look worthy to step into his shoes. My tutors were reassigned to the younger children, and I was given real scholars from the Museion, as well as retired ambassadors to teach me the intricacies of diplomacy. In addition, I was expected to be present at all Father’s council meetings.

In some ways I missed my earlier freedom and unimportance; it seems that even unpleasant states have a way of recommending themselves to you after they are over. My days of running about with the Society of Imhotep had ended; and even Mardian and Olympos seemed distant, as if they were unsure how to treat me now. Never had I felt more alone—solitary and elevated.

Yet would I have wished to be other than I was? No.

Learning how to govern, day by day, was a painstaking process. To have command of all the workings of the country, a king had to master a multitude of details. These were covered, tediously, in council meetings. While Father sat at the head of them, I took a place to one side and listened. To have the canals dredged…to collect the import taxes more efficiently…to ration grain in a poor harvest year…yes, the ruler must know, and have wisdom on, these things. He who did not would be at the mercy of his ministers.

And the choosing of ministers—that was an art in itself. You wanted the most talented, the most dedicated, as nothing less was worthy of the country. Yet the more talented, the more dedicated, a man was—the more his loyalty might waver. Seeing all your shortcomings, he might be tempted to turn against you.

But to have fools for ministers was also a recipe for disaster. There were so many pitfalls a ruler could fall into.

During the first year after Father’s return, the infamous Rabirius and his debt dominated the council meetings. Father’s total debt to Rome was now sixteen thousand talents; Gabinius had demanded ten thousand on top of the six that had already been agreed on. Egypt was reeling under it. Small wonder that certain elements later rebelled.

But at this time, the problem was being tackled straightforwardly.

People were in a benign, welcoming mood, glad that their King had returned. But when they were presented with the bill for restoring him, the murmurs would begin. And maybe grow into a full-fledged revolt.

Father tried to get Rabirius to forgive some of the debt. Other advisors suggested that we increase import taxes to cover it. Still others said we should ask for an extension.

I could not help but think that countries were only groups of people, and that the answer lay in remembering how individuals thought. People are more generous after they have been granted a favor; then they are more likely to grant one in return.

“It seems to me that the people should pay the debt, and it should be paid on time. Otherwise the interest on it will just increase,” I said, speaking up from the side of the gathering. “But it might be wise to announce a general amnesty before you announce the debt collection. Forgive bad debts and minor crimes and thereby appear magnanimous.”

One of the advisors opened his mouth to disagree, but Father looked impressed. “A good idea,” he finally said.

“It would create widespread goodwill,” I said.

“Yes, at a loss of our income!” protested one of the financial councillors.

“It is a small loss, to offset such a large collection. There is little likelihood of our collecting those old debts in any case,” I said. It seemed so obvious.

“I shall think on it,” said Father. And he ended up following my suggestion. I was most pleased.

Father was safe now; his throne was steady, supported by the might of Rome and the borrowed Gabinius legions. He was almost fifty, and purposed to enjoy his reign in peace—or, rather, in ease and comfort. He had his Dionysian revels, of course, his banquets and his poetry readings late at night to occupy him. And once he took us all hunting in the western desert, to emulate both the Pharaohs and the earlier Ptolemies.

He had seen so many pictures of Pharaohs killing lions that he was minded to seek one; he had had so many depictions made of himself smiting enemies on the walls of the temples that he had come to believe it had truly happened. And so we set out in order for the King to slay a lion—two hundred beaters, slaves, kennelmasters, provisioners (for what was the King to eat while waiting to bag his game?). We rode camels—the best beasts for the desert, despite the pictures of kings shooting from chariots. The lions had been driven farther and farther back into the desert wilderness, and we must seek them there.

For a piece we kept along the seashore, but after a bit we turned inland along a ridge where the hunters assured us that lions lurked.

I was swaying along on top of the camel, enjoying the rocking motion, my head protected against the piercing sun by an elaborate headdress. I did not care whether we found a lion or not, but I loved seeing this dangerous and empty land. The terrain stretched out supine in all directions, colored every shade of gold and brown. The wind, still fresh from the sea, came whipping around us, sometimes murmuring, sometimes sighing, sometimes whining.

At night we slept in luxurious tents. The fabric was embroidered with tiny, painstakingly sewn designs, and over our beds were unfurled curtains of lightest silk to keep out any grains of sand or insects. Lanterns flickered on little ivory-inlaid folding tables, and our attendants slept on pallets at our feet. The largest royal tent, where the King was, was large enough that he could gather all his remaining children around him after the evening meal.

As the wind whistled around the tent ropes, we would sit with him, lounging on cushions at his feet. Sometimes we would play a board game, such as draughts or senet. Arsinoe would play the lyre—she was quite talented at it—and the two boys would sometimes be playing a board game of their own. I can see us in my mind right at this moment; I can even smell the light, dry scent of the desert air. Four little Ptolemies, each ambitious, each determined to rule when the benevolent King passed on—the King who would soon begin nodding in his cups.

I watched Arsinoe carefully. By this time she was thirteen to my sixteen, and every year she grew more beautiful. Her alabaster-pale skin had a pearly glow to it, her features were almost perfect, and her eyes were the color of the sea at Alexandria. Her temper was not good, she was demanding and emotional, but beauty has a way of softening all hearts.

My oldest brother Ptolemy, almost eight now and presumably my future husband—what of him? I wished I could like him, I thought, as I watched his dark head bent over his game of dice, but he was a nasty little character, devious and selfish—the sort who moved the mark in games and lied about it when confronted. He was probably using crooked dice even now. He was a coward as well. I had watched him running from the most harmless dogs, and even from cats.

Little Ptolemy should have been born first, so I would have been matched with him instead. The child seemed to have a double portion of the things his brother was lacking: he was forthright, cheerful, and high-spirited. As a couple, I realized, he and Arsinoe would be more appealing than the elder Ptolemy and I.

Isn’t that appalling? To be lying at our father’s feet, a supposedly happy family relaxing, and to be thinking those thoughts? But that is what it is to be a Ptolemy: all our family affections are subordinated to our own ambitions, which are never at rest. The only thing that distinguishes any of us is whether we will draw the line at nothing to achieve our goals, or whether some acts remain forbidden.

On this particular night, Arsinoe was lounging back against the cushions, plucking at her lyre and murmuring some words. Her voice was not particularly pleasing, I was glad to note. The lanterns were winking, and Father was lifting another cup of wine to his lips, a dreamy expression on his face.

“Give me some,” I suddenly said. “Anything that brings such an otherworldly contentment to your face must have been sent from the gods.”

When the servant poured me some and I tasted it, it was truly sublime—heavy, sweet, and golden.

“From Cyprus,” said the King. “They have long been famous for their wines, which keep a long time and don’t turn bitter.” A dark look came over his face. “Cyprus. Our lost Cyprus!” He reached for his pipes. He was about to start playing, and then weep.

“Tell me more about Cyprus!” I said. I didn’t want to sit through one of his musical performances, followed by a bout of self-pity. I think that was what I liked least about him—the maudlin indulgences, not the wine itself. “What happened with you and Cato there?” On his way to Rome, Father had stopped at Cyprus, where Cato sat, inventorying the last Ptolemy’s possessions.

“Cato! What do they call him in Rome? ‘The austere, hard-drinking Cato.’ How can they go together?” He laughed, a tinkling, drunken laugh. “The Romans took Cyprus from my brother! Just annexed it, and my poor brother had to drink poison.” Tears welled up in his eyes.

“But Cato? What did he have to do with it?”

“They sent Cato out to help himself to the treasury there, and to complete the annexation, make it part of the province of Cilicia.” He sniffed. “When I arrived, Cato—Cato—! He received me while—while—sitting on a privy!”

I gasped. I knew Father had been insulted, but not to this extent. So we had truly fallen this low? A Roman official received a Ptolemaic king while seated on a privy? I burned with shame, and anger. Did everyone know about this? Had Gabinius and Antony?

“It smelled bad,” added the King. “Very bad. So I suppose what he said was true—his bowels were upset, and he dared not move.”

“Curse his bowels!” said Arsinoe suddenly. She had not even seemed to be listening.

“I think, from what Father says, they
were
cursed,” I said. “I hope they continue to be so.”

“He has enemies,” said Father. “He is very conservative; he tries to make a case for himself as a noble of the old Roman type, but his day, and the day of others like him, is passing. Caesar will sweep him from the board, as I sweep these draughts.” He gave an unsteady swat that knocked a few pieces to the ground.

“The same Julius Caesar who took over Rabirius’s debt?” I asked. “When will he come to Egypt to collect it?”

“Never,” said Father, “if we are lucky. He is busy conquering Gaul; they say he’s the greatest general since Alexander. Of course our patron, Pompey, doesn’t think so. Their rivalry grows every day. No, child, only if Pompey is put down by Caesar will Caesar ever come here. And if Pompey is vanquished, the fortunes of Egypt will vanish with him. So pray Caesar never comes here!” He hiccuped gently.

“Caesar must be surrounded by enemies,” said Arsinoe. “Cato on the one hand, Pompey on the other.”

“He is,” said Father. “But he seems to be made of iron; nothing bothers him. He trusts completely to his luck, to his destiny. At the same time, he seems to tempt it.” He began laughing—cackling, almost. “He has made Cato’s sister his mistress!”

We all screamed with laughter.

“Love as a weapon,” said Arsinoe. I knew what she was thinking:
With my looks, it is a weapon open to me
.

“That is one we Ptolemies have never employed,” Father said. “Strange, when we’ve exploited all the others.”

“Perhaps none of us were very lovable,” I suggested.

“Nonsense!” said Father.

Time passed; Father stayed on his throne; the Romans continued their bickering amongst themselves, which diverted their attention. There were many ceremonial occasions to keep us busy, in addition to the real, behind-the-scenes work.

The Alexandrians wished to dedicate a newly laid-out precinct to us—a park that included plantings, statuary, and pools on the outskirts of the city. We attended in full royal regalia, presented by Father for the occasion, human statues in the midst of the stone ones. I was seventeen then, becoming used to such ceremonies.

But on this day two things were different. The inscription—dictated by Father—carved on the stone called us all “Our Lords and Greatest Gods.” So we were all gods now, not just the ruler? He stood proudly as the stone was exhibited and the startling words recited.