The Memoirs of Cleopatra (100 page)
I felt tired, reading it. All these ceremonies grown up around Caesar and his shrine—it made my head ache thinking of it. Or perhaps it was the continuing flat, heavy heat that made my head ache. The god of the winds had shut them all up in a bag as surely as he had for Odysseus. Nothing stirred, no ships could sail. Only the straining muscles of oarsmen could move vessels, and although their skins shone with sweat, it did not cool them.
In the blazing heat of midday, livestock died—cattle dropped over, swine collapsed, and inside the royal stables I had rows of servants on duty to fan continually. Cyllarus had to survive to welcome Caesarion home, as well as the fine horses that were the pride of the palace.
Antony was drooping as he went about his business listlessly. He was trying to ascertain exactly what had happened to Sextus, and how his orders had become so confused. He had sent word for Titius to report to us at Alexandria, and meanwhile was planning his delayed punitive invasion of Armenia. “But it will have to wait until next year,” he admitted. “It is too late now.” He acted as if he did not care.
Just then Iras appeared in the doorway, bringing an Indian boy who served in one of the chambers. Several years ago the ship he had come with—along with silks, ivory, and sandalwood—had left without him, stranding him. He had since been employed at tending the silks and embroideries in the royal wardrobe, knowing, as he did, how to clean them and rid them of wrinkles.
“Vimala has a suggestion for cooling our chambers,” said Iras, urging him forward. “He says it works well in his city.”
“Yes, madam,” he said, bowing up and down so fast he looked like a bobbing chicken. “And most gracious sir.” He turned to Antony and repeated the performance.
“Well, what is it?” It looked as if this bowing would go on all morning, and he himself drop over from exertion.
“This open doorway,” he said, crossing over to the entrance onto the rooftop terrace—now radiating heat like a kiln as the sun beat down on it. “Does air blow in here?”
“Yes, normally, off the sea.”
“Ah. Then we can try this. In India we hang weighted, beaded strings across doorways and pour water onto the ‘mother’ strip. It drips down all the ‘daughter’ strips and as the wind blows across it, the air is cooled.”
It sounded too simple to be effective.
“It can make this chamber cool, my lady, even when it is blistering hot outside. In India, it is hotter than this every day in summer.”
“Very well—I am willing to try!” I told him. Anything to free my body and mind from this oppression. My arms felt as though gossamer linens, soaked in hot water, had been placed on them. And as for touching Antony—the thought of more warm skin on mine was unbearable.
As the boy departed, I said to Iras, “Perhaps deliverance is at hand. I thank you.”
I handed the letter to Antony. He read it silently, then finally said, “So Octavian is no longer Octavian—he has escaped from his pedestrian past.”
“Is that all you have to say?” Surely he understood the implications!
“What do you want me to say? It’s his business what he calls himself. He’s legally entitled to the ‘Caesar’—it’s Caesar himself who adopted him.”
“I’ve always thought it suspicious that the adoption was a secret from Octavian. If Caesar wanted to adopt him, why not tell him?”
“What difference does it make now?”
“I’m just trying to understand it!”
“No, you are trying to prove it was a forgery. Well, it wasn’t. It was in that will. I saw it.”
“I wonder if there wasn’t another will—a later one—one that named Caesarion—”
“If there was, it’s gone. Please stop this. Caesarion will have to wrest any inheritance he gets away from Octavian. There cannot be two Caesars.”
“Yes, I know.” I knew it deeply. “At least this journey to Rome has shown him what he has been deprived of. You were right to say he must go.”
Antony frowned. “That is not why I said he must go. I thought he must go for personal reasons, not political ones.”
“I think when you are a Ptolemy and a Caesar, they cannot exist separately.”
To the most gracious and wise Queen of Egypt, dispenser of justice:
Hail. I salute you, and I salute me, for I have been working very hard, actually creating false noses on men who have lost theirs in battle—of course they are not perfect, but better than a gaping hole—
and
I have been listening very hard to all the news. Of an evening I stroll up the Palatine hill, at twilight when the breezes rise and rustle in the odd, flat pines they have here, and I pass Antony’s house nearby, where I look long and observe. First, it is in good condition, nicely trimmed and clean—I know you will be relieved to hear—and the gardens are thriving. A bevy of servants is always about, lending an air of bustle to the place. Octavia presides over it like a proper Roman matron, and once I glimpsed her strolling between some cypresses on the sloped hill garden. The word—which I hear around the public fountains—is that her brother has ordered her to leave your house, Imperator, but that she doggedly stays, maintaining that that is her home as your wife. I could almost suspect that Octavian wishes her to stay, because she is ruining your reputation by being the martyr, faithful to a faithless man, and so on—selflessly dedicating herself to raising your children, even Antyllus and Iullus by her predecessor, and entertaining your senatorial friends at home. If he had wanted to blacken your character, Imperator, he scarcely could have found a better vessel
.
They also say—again around the fountains, many of them installed by the generosity of Agrippa—that Octavian and his party are helping to improve the lives of ordinary Romans, whereas his feckless Triumviral partner squanders his money in the east, with the golden chamber pots. (That detail has certainly caught people’s imaginations. Do you have one? I don’t recall.) They also talk about jewel-encrusted writing tablets, thrones, and eunuchs. They gossip about the Queen as a man-hungry enchantress, whose only mission in life is snaring noble Romans. They make you sound like a spider, sitting in a web of jeweled allure, trapping any Roman general foolhardy enough to venture into the east. Nothing is said about a marriage, legal or otherwise. Nothing at all is said about Parthia or Armenia, either
.
I am happy to report that Caesarion’s Latin has become quite proficient; I hear him chattering away at the food vendors’ and ironmongers’ and sandalmakers’. He has also grown in the past few weeks, and needs new clothes—which he enjoys wearing. He is quite well disguised in his Roman garb. It amuses me to watch him
.
I will describe the nose-restoration surgery when I see you. It is quite ingenious
.
May you never need it!
Your devoted, and busy, Olympos
The words hit me heavier than the still-sultry air in the palace. Octavia again! Yes, Olympos was right—what a perfect weapon she was, in the right hands! The more virtuous she was, the worse Antony appeared for failing to appreciate this paragon of womanhood.
I threw the letter down in disgust. What could I do? Nothing!
I retired to the “cooled” room. Vimala’s invention worked quite well; as faint breezes passed through the soaked strings, like a lyre dripping with water, a damp coolness pervaded the air. It had been a relief to be able to retreat here, and I had ordered similar devices installed in other chambers as well.
I poured some perfume out into a handkerchief and wiped my forehead. The scent—a compound of black hyacinth and violet—helped to clear my head. Should I even show Antony the letter? What good would it do, except to make him want to run back to Rome? No, there was no point. I put it away, where he would not see it.
To the Queen:
My hand is still trembling and I can barely write this. But I have to; only by writing it can I calm myself and put it in its proper place. Shall I tell it from the ending backward, or in order? Order, I think. To restore order, one must impose order
.
Well, then. It was a fine summer evening, of the sort we enjoy every night. The crowds for the
Ludi Apollinares
and the birthday of
Divus Julius
had departed, letting the city return to normal. There is always a feeling of relief after a festival is over, and the shopkeepers and ordinary people seemed in high spirits. There was the usual sauntering in the streets, the loitering at taverns, the strolling toward the riverbanks or public gardens. As Caesarion and I climbed the steps up to our third-floor apartment, I could not help feeling a pang of deprivation for all the amusements beckoning at street level. But I had promised to keep your precious son out of mischief! And so we dutifully trudged upstairs, where nothing awaited us but some middling-quality wine, overripe fruit, and boring books. Although it was still fairly light outside, the rooms were getting dark. I lighted three oil lamps—including the Sextus one, strange how one remembers such details—and prepared for a quiet evening. There were some medical writings I needed to check, and Caesarion would practice his Latin declensions. It promised all the excitement of keeping watch at a cemetery—even less, truth to tell, because there were no ghosts
.
And as we sat there, in the dim light, I heard a knock and carelessly said, “Come in.” One gets to know one’s neighbors in these close quarters, and I was well acquainted with Gaius the butcher and Marcus the baker, and Zeus knows how many others. I almost turned to stone when I looked up and saw Octavian step in
.
I knew it was he—who else could look so like all the statues? Or, I should say, a version of the statues. The statues look like the handsomest man in creation, and he is not—although he is handsome enough, that I grant you. And I must give the statues credit for preserving his individual features—his little ears that are set low down on his head, and his triangular face. That was how I recognized him
.
I could barely speak—and you know that is unusual for me
.
“Good evening, Olympos,” he said, further robbing me of speech. Then he turned toward Caesarion, who was staring at him, and just nodded, without calling him anything. He looked around the room, disdainfully, as if to say
, Is this your disguise?
But he conveyed it all wordlessly, his eyes sending the message
.
And those eyes…clear, grayish blue, utterly emotionless. I have never seen another creature’s eyes like that; even dead soldiers’ do not have that flatness to them, a flatness with life yet behind it, watching
.
“Good evening, Triumvir,” I heard myself saying. “Fine night, isn’t it? What brings you here? I thought you were busy in Illyria.” Did that sound controlled enough? I hoped to match him and ruffle his calmness. Let him think I had expected
him.
“Did you have trouble finding us?”
“None.” He gave an imitation of a smile
.
“Well, they say your spy system is good. I suppose you need it—so many enemies.”
Caesarion had risen to his feet. I am pleased to report he was almost the same height as the Son of the God. But then, he is also the Son of the God. All that celestial company!
Octavian turned to him, that false smile still spread across his face. “Welcome to Rome, Your Majesty,” he said. “It has been a long time—some nine or ten years, I believe—since I have seen you. You should have notified me, so I could receive you officially.”
“We did not wish to trouble you, Triumvir, since you were away fighting the enemies of Rome,” said Caesarion. I was impressed by his quick response. “It would have been an imposition.”
“Nonsense!” said Octavian. “You insult me by thinking so.”
“No insult was intended, Triumvir,” said Caesarion
.
Both of them stared at one another, curiosity gripping them
.
Finally, Octavian broke the silence. “But you do insult me by sneaking into my city, by using my family name, and by claiming to be the son of my father.” He was staring intently at the pendant with the Caesarean emblem on it, which was too clearly visible around the boy’s neck
.
“The city of Rome is not your city, Caesar himself allowed me to use his name, and furthermore, he is not your father—he is your great-uncle,” countered Caesarion
.
“Great-uncle by birth, father by adoption,” said Octavian. “At least I share his blood, which you do not. Everyone knows—it is common knowledge—that you are a bastard with an unknown father. If the Queen has told you otherwise, she has done you a great wrong.”
“Now you insult my mother!” said Caesarion fiercely. “She would never lie.”
“She lied to Caesar, pretending to carry his child, when all the world knew he was incapable of fathering children.”
“I beg your pardon, Triumvir,” I broke in, “but as a physician I must disagree with you. He had a daughter, Julia.”
“Yes, born thirty years before this—boy.”
“What does that prove? Perhaps his wives weren’t fertile.”
“All three of them?”
“Cornelia had Julia, and as for the other two—Pompeia was divorced for her suspected affairs, and Calpurnia spent barely any time with him. The case is hardly conclusive.” I certainly knew more about this sort of thing than Octavian did! “And Caesar was not a fool; he could not have been deceived so easily. After all, he knew where he had been, and when….” I hated to have to say these things in front of the boy!
Octavian snorted. His fine nostrils flared slightly. “I command you to stop using the name of Caesar!” he said coldly. “You have no legal right to it.”
“Then why did you recognize me as co-ruler with my mother, under that name, eight years ago?” Caesarion was quick to seize on this legality
.
Octavian was thrown off his stride for an instant. “It was not I who did it, but the Triumvirs Antony and Lepidus who insisted on it as a concession to the Queen of Egypt, to prevent her sending ships and aid to the assassins in Asia.”
“Now you do truly insult my mother the Queen! As if she would ever send aid to Cassius and Brutus! No, you recognized me under that name because you knew it was true. It is only now that you seek to rescind it and usurp my legacy!”
Octavian seemed to grow calmer as Caesarion grew more heated. “So now you admit it—you intend to grasp your fancied Roman inheritance, and overturn Roman law! There are words for such as you—pretenders, bastards, and insurrectionists. By Roman law I am Caesar’s son, and inherit his name and estate. Only by conquering Rome and destroying her Senate and judges can you unseat me.”
I fancied he meant to say “depose,” and only just stopped himself in time
.
“It is you who twist the law and deprive me of what is rightfully mine,” insisted Caesarion. I was proud of the way he refused to back off
.
“Enough!” Octavian barely raised his voice. “Return to Egypt. Tell the Queen to give up her dreams of conquest of Rome, and to release the Triumvir Antony from his bondage. She is mad with the dreams of empire. But she shall not rule here! And you are not Caesar’s son! Tell her all this, and warn her to stay away from my country. Never insult me by coming here like this again!” He looked around, his eyes narrowing. “What a pitiful masquerade!”
“Is this your country?” asked Caesarion. “I thought the Triumvir Antony could also claim it for his home.”
“When he is ready to quit the east, with his concubines and eunuchs and drunken orgies, then let him return, a Roman once more.”
“I am afraid you have fallen victim to your own stories, Triumvir,” I said. “It is you who have concocted the concubines, eunuchs, and orgies. Come and visit us, and see for yourself what life he leads.”
“Never!” He looked as if he had been invited to a serpent’s den
.
“Are you afraid the eastern Queen will bewitch you?” I could not help teasing him, although it was no laughing matter. His stories had gained deadly currency
.
“She could not,” he said. “It would be impossible. Now get you gone! I must return to Illyria, and I will not leave you behind here.”
“So you have done us the honor to travel all the way from the frontier for this informal visit?” I asked. “Such a long journey, and for such a short time!”
“It was long enough to say what needed to be said, and for me to see what I needed to see,” he said, turning to go
.
“And our journey, which was even longer, has also answered these questions,” said Caesarion
.
“Vale,” said Octavian. “Farewell. I do not look to see you again.”
He seemed to vanish, so quickly did he step over the threshold of the apartment. I went to the door after him, but all I saw was the gloom of the hallway
.
“O ye gods!” said Caesarion, and he was as pale as a ghost. “Was this a vision?”
“You acquitted yourself well, to deal with such an apparition,” I said. “Caesar himself could not have done better. You have proved yourself his most worthy son.”
And there it is, exactly as it happened, not an hour ago
.
Your loyal, almost speechless, and shaken physician, Olympos
