Cleopatra (11 page)

Summer again

Should I complain because once again I am in a villa on the sea? Atticus has graciously sent me here, he has proven to be more a friend than I had first thought. But all is not well with him.

Cicero spoke a violent argument before the Senate, attacking Atticus' character and others who want to help us. He said the moneylenders are fools to squander good money and good soldiers on Egypt, especially under a commander like Antony who is (these are his words) “nothing more than a wretched, insignificant, intoxicated subordinate of Caesar's”. I was in the gallery when Cicero also pleaded his case against my father, King Ptolemy XII.

“He is just the drunken Flute Player,” he said. “It is only a matter of time before Alexandria becomes a Roman province.”

Oh, I was crushed at his words, crushed. I wanted to run and hide so I could weep privately, but I stayed, for a queen must bear bad news with dignity. (I must learn to do this, I must!) Also, I did not want the ladies sitting with me to think I am merely a child. But silently my heart was screaming,
We will never let you barbarians have our beautiful city.

Here is the sad story. Father is ready to sail home, the soldiers are ready, our ships are ready. But we must stay in Italy until the Senate hears all the legal arguments. Politics!

It is good that I am here at the sea, away from the quarrels. My admiration of Cicero has fallen – I thought he was my friend. The very words I once found enchanting have been used against me.

My comfort is the white cat, whom I carried on my lap the entire journey from Rome. The curtains on my carriage stayed closed along the Appian Way, so the beautiful countryside appeared as a silky blue scene. I did not want to see the crosses in bright sunlight.

I wish Crassus would take the remaining ones down. The sight of them, though few, chills my heart. No matter how friendly we have all become, life still boils down to one ugly truth: it is folly to be an enemy of Rome.

All morning I sat on the beach looking out at the beautiful sea. I no longer feel safe knowing that powerful Roman men are quarrelling about my father and our Alexandria, or that even the great Cicero will argue to his advantage. Also, I am uneasy about my father personally. If he has any thoughts on the romance between Puzo and Neva, he is keeping them to himself. I do not know if he has forgotten or if he plans to take action.

Another truth for a princess: it is folly to be an enemy of the king.

Early morning

Little Octavian is here, such a dear child! Julia, his aunt, brought him from the sweltering heat of Rome. Already the sunshine and sea breezes have improved his complexion
and he is most cheerful. But he has begged to stay with me instead of her because the villa she is living in this summer is in Pompeii, a few miles inland, much too far away for a boy anxious to build sancastles on the beach.

Thus, by staying at the villa of Atticus, Octavian can run from his room into the water whenever he pleases, and play in the waves. (We are so alike on this!)

Two days later, Sunset

Some days my heart is so lonely, it feels as if I am a bird sitting alone on a roof. I watch the sea and wish my little island Antirrhodus was in the bay, near enough for me to swim to. Would sitting in my own palace make me feel more at home?

In my mind I see Marc Antony in his soldier's tunic, coming for me, his warship ready to sail for Egypt.

I think about him often.

 

Princess Cleopatra to Olympus, student of medicine, and Theophilus, student of philosophy, both friends much missed:

Mercy to you and peace. Summer solstice passed a few weeks ago. A grain ship is now anchored in the Bay of Naples, on its way to Alexandria. I can see from my window the mariners rowing to shore in little boats to gather supplies from town. Their pilot has promised to take this letter to you so I will hurry.

Heartache describes my daily thoughts. In fact, as I write this I am in great distress (which is why my words are in Greek not Hebrew, Theophilus). Cicero says that it is against ancient Sibylline prophecies for Romans to help Father reclaim his throne, thus for now we must remain in Italy. (I do not understand!)

In the meantime, the seaside villa of Atticus comforts me.

Someone is tapping on my door. My candle is lit to make wax for my seal. Know it is I, dear friends, your Cleopatra, who writes this in my own hand.

 

SCROLL 12
55
BC

Rome
Winter again

I have not written for weeks, for I have been low in spirit.

Suffice to say that the week of Saturnalia, which started the seventeenth of December, passed with loud celebrations and feasting to honour the Roman harvest god. For seven days, courts of law and public businesses were closed. Even slaves were free to attend the festivities.

I, Princess Cleopatra, did not enjoy one moment. Each time Father tried to pull me into the crowded streets for dancing, I told him Saturn is a
Roman
god, leave me alone. The truth is, I am homesick, but he does not understand the heart of a fourteen-year-old girl.

O, yes, I am now fourteen. Dear Atticus held a small dinner in my honour a few weeks ago. It was simple and exactly to my pleasing. Two readers stood in opposite corners of the room, reciting in unison
The Birds
, a cheerful fantasy about a city in the sky, written so very long ago by Aristophanes.

It was a satisfactory evening, I must admit. Especially my unexpected meeting with Cicero. At first my heart was hard towards him, but he soon won my favour with his pleasantries. I asked him to step outside with me in the courtyard. Torches and charcoal fires placed around the fountain made the winter night feel balmy.

“Sir,” I had returned to addressing Cicero formally, “it is you who stands between my father's and my returning to our home. Why?”

O, the speech that followed … oratory at its finest! I listened patiently, as a queen should, then I said, “Sir, you yourself know that Rome will benefit from a friendship with Egypt. The sooner my father is restored to his throne, the sooner we can work to repay the loans citizens have made.” Cicero opened his mouth to speak, but I had not finished. “For it is their personal money, sir, not yours.” At that, I turned and left him in the courtyard. How long he stood there I do not know, because he did not return to my party.

I am writing this while wrapped in a thick wool blanket, for my chamber feels damp. Rain is coming in through the opening above the atrium, splashing the marble floors all the way into the hall. This architecture is good for summer heat, but all this openness can be miserable in winter.

3 Februarius

Good news. O, joy! We
are
going home, as soon as the winter storms have passed. I have already written to Theophilus and Olympus, so the letters can go out on the messenger ships that will precede our royal fleet. I will be so thrilled to see them once again. This is what happened: Cicero pleaded his case before the Senate so that records show his opinion. His words:

“Marc Antony is going to Alexandria in defiance of the Senate, and of patriotism, and of the will of heaven.”

Cicero then held up his hands as if symbolically washing himself of his responsibility with us, and stormed out of the building. He will not give us his blessing, but he will not keep us from leaving.

I do not know how the great Cicero will write about this event, but I hope in my heart that he remembers the many pleasant hours he and I enjoyed in conversation together.

To continue…

An odd thing happened today, which I am struggling to understand. Neva and I were touring some of the shops that are near the Forum. Puzo was not with us for I had decided on impulse to go out on our own.

Neva carried a basket over her arm for our purchases. We had just come out of a little book stall where I bought a volume of Catullus' poetry, when it began to rain. In moments the streets were a river of waste, so I stood on a stepping stone to keep my feet clean. My wet hair was streaming in my face, my shawl was soaked.

Suddenly I felt myself being lifted up, thrown over a man's shoulder, and carried away. When I realized this was not Puzo, for he has never carted me off in such a manner, I was frightened. I pounded my fists on the man's back. He was wearing a sword. Even though I was upside down, I managed to grab it by its handle and pull it out. But in doing so, the blade cut off his belt and sliced through the cloth of his tunic, dropping his clothes to the ground. At this, my captor set me down in the shelter of a warm bakery. I quickly stepped backwards and turned to look up at his face, for I did not want to see the undressed part of his body.

It was Marc Antony. And he was laughing.

At first I was too angry to speak. Neva hurried to my side and helped brush my dress back in place and refasten my shawl, but I held onto the sword. (O, why had I thought I would be safe without Puzo?)

“Here, Commander,” said a soldier stepping between us. He draped a long red cape over Antony's shoulders so he was no longer naked.

I felt my courage return. “How dare you!” I tightened my grip on the sword.

“But, Princess,” he said, “are you not happier being out of the rain?” He was still smiling, obviously pleased with himself. A crowd had gathered in the wet street to watch, but the baker clapped his hands at them to leave.

“I am not happy that a brute has laid hands on me in an improper way.” I pointed the sword at his face and thought how easy it would be for me to slice off his ear. I wanted to hurt him, but reason cleared my head.

I did not want to find myself in a Roman courtroom with Cicero accusing me. Nor did I want to say the wrong thing to Antony, the man I would depend on to lead soldiers to Egypt, to reclaim Father's throne. I needed to be wise.

I bent down to pick up the scabbard, slipped in the sword, then wrapped it with the leather belt that had fallen at his feet.

“Thank you, Cleopatra,” he said, reaching for it. But I backed away from him, put the sword in Neva's basket, and walked out of the bakery. It was still raining. As we turned the corner, I noticed the red cape of my commander. He was now standing in the street surrounded by other soldiers. I could see that his face was turned towards me.

It is late, the house is once again quiet. I have locked Antony's sword in my chest. It is made from beautiful Damascus steel, polished to show my reflection, but sharpened to kill. He will never know how fast my heart was beating during our encounter this afternoon. I was frightened… I was furious…

O Isis, forgive me, but now I am confused. There is something about Antony that makes me want to see him again.

13 Februarius

My spirits are higher as spring grows near. I have not seen Antony since that rainy day, but I find myself looking for him, hoping he will come to visit Atticus when I happen to be there, also.

Julia coaxed me to another play. While we were carried through the street in our litters, I saw her arm point out from her curtain, in the direction of a new theatre being built. She had told me earlier it will be the first one made of stone and will be named the Theatre of Pompey, after her husband.

Two days later

I am still pale from my afternoon at the theatre and will try to record the events that so upset me.

Julia and I were in the front row as usual, enjoying the satire,
The Frogs.
Suddenly a man sitting far behind me shouted, “O, shut up!” apparently to one of the actors. As a royal princess I did not turn around to see who this brute was, but I could see that people alongside me were restless. To my surprise, someone else yelled, “Shut up, you pig!” then others joined in. I tried to keep my eyes on the performers, but they, too, were distracted.

Voices rose from the audience, calling for something more interesting, a bear eating a man perhaps or gladiators killing one another. I glanced at Julia. She stared straight ahead, but her mouth moved in a slight grimace, the only hint that she was as displeased as I.

Then before our eyes, with actors still on stage, a lioness was brought out, its legs hobbled together so she would not leap into the stands. She looked starved, and I wondered if she was the one brought from Alexandria with our fleet so many months ago. When a slave was then dragged out, the crowd began chanting.

“Crucify him!”

My hands twisted nervously in my lap, hidden by the folds of my toga. Meanwhile the actors carried on with the play, trying to shout above the noise.

O Isis, I will not describe the slave's terrible cries when the lion's front paws were unchained.
Because I was in the front row, those sitting behind me could not see that my royal eyes were closed. Tears were in my throat. I did not want to see such cruelties.

When a gladiator came out to finish off the lion, the audience went wild. My heart wanted to weep for I now knew another ugly truth: men prefer brutality to literature. I suffered sitting there, not knowing what to do. When prisoners were led to the dirt area in front of the stage, carrying beams of wood across their shoulders, I looked for Puzo.

I saw him moving off to the side, near an exit, so I patted Julia's arm. We both stood and walked out. I, Cleopatra, Princess of the Nile, do not have to watch crucifixions.

May Rome burn. I want to go home.

8 Martius
Aboard the royal ship
Roga

It is cold on deck as I write. Wind pushes at our sails so that we are tilted almost onto our side, but I am not afraid. We have just weighed anchor out from the island of Malta and are heading south. Within one week we should be home.

My heart is cheered by many things. Father is alert and dressed like a king. I have not seen him drunk since our last party in Rome. What a scene that was!

Our fleet and the Roman warships are spread out over miles of the great sea. Foot soldiers led by Marc Antony left many weeks ago to march into Alexandria by way of Judea. They should arrive at the same time we do.

Why can I not stop thinking of him?

The farewell banquet for Antony hosted by Atticus was lavish. I was so busy in my thoughts about our departure to take place the following day that my memory is vague over who and how many dignitaries took my hand in greeting. The rooms were loud with voices and the music of harps and tambourines. In every corner there were little balls of incense to mask the foul odours of vomit, for there was much drinking of wine – too much.

Many times that evening, I excused myself to the kitchen garden where the air was cool. It was here that I was surprised by Antony waiting for me by the gate. It was odd that I could find no words to speak, nor did he. We just stood there near the rows of newly planted herbs and looked around as if we were two shoppers in the marketplace. There was no moonlight at this hour, just a low glow of candles along the path leading into the next courtyard. Thus when he pulled me into his arms I could not see his face. I did not know what to do, but I was not as alarmed as when he had hoisted me over his shoulder.

He kissed me.

Was it the heavy smell of wine on his breath that made me back away, or was I just nervous? Perhaps both.

Now that our ships are in full sail I wonder when we will reach Alexandria and, when we do, if Antony and I will find another moment to be alone.

Neva has just passed a note to me. This morning Father caught her and Puzo in a tender embrace. She is terrified that he will sentence her to the ocean serpents. I must hurry to prevent this.