The Memoirs of Cleopatra (105 page)

Six days later I was again on a gold throne, raised high on a silver platform, again dressed as Isis, for another ceremony. Again my children were nearby, and again, Antony presided. But, oh! how different in intent and ritual. For this ceremony was the declaration, the inauguration, of our eastern empire.

We had put the final touches on it late at night some three days after the Triumph. Workers were still sweeping the streets clean, carts were still trundling out of the city piled high with the debris from the feasting; I did not want dogs and crows scavenging. Together we had decided not to put Artavasdes to death, but keep him imprisoned. Let this Triumph—or Dionysian revel—proclaim its difference from its Roman counterpart in this way. Our regime would not be so cruel.

“Although it was different, and not, strictly speaking, a Triumph, it will anger the Romans,” I pointed out to Antony. “Just as soon as they hear of it.”

“I care not,” he had shrugged, leaning back on his couch. His hand groped for a bolster for his shoulder.

“I think you do,” I said. “It is not in your nature to anger people on purpose.” I paused. “How clever of you to make it just different enough from a Roman Triumph that if you wish, you can say that was never your intention. ‘After all, I dressed as Dionysus, not a Roman general, so how could anyone
possibly
think I meant…?’”

“It was not that deliberate,” he said. “It is just that…here I am Dionysus to your Aphrodite, to the Greeks at least. To the Egyptians I am Osiris to your Isis. All that is unknown at Rome. It seemed more fitting…” His voice trailed off.

Slowly Antony had allowed himself to “become” a god here in the east. It had started when he was hailed that way at Ephesus after Philippi. Then he had played Dionysus at Tarsus. Next, in Athens, he and Octavia had been dubbed “Gods of Good Works” and Antony called “the New Dionysus.” To commemorate that, he had issued coins picturing himself as Dionysus. Next he allowed himself to be proclaimed Dionysus in all the cities of the east. The final step, after our marriage, was being worshiped throughout Egypt as a god, Dionysus-Osiris with Aphrodite-Isis.

“You have outstripped Octavian,” I had teased him. “After all, he is only the
son
of a god!”

As always when Octavian’s name was mentioned, even in fun, Antony’s face clouded. “I have no intention of competing with him for titles of divinity!” he said haughtily—as haughtily as any god.

“Now that you have embraced your godhood, I think you must have a temple,” I said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he countered.

“I am serious. Caesar has one, and so should you. Octavian is building a temple to his new ‘patron,’ Apollo, right next to his house—how blatant. It is all the rage. You must have one, too.”

“Nonsense.”

“I will have a building overlooking the harbor put up in your honor. I will call it the Antoneum. Or perhaps the Basilica of the Divine Antony
—Divus Antonius
.”

He laughed. “Do as you will,” he said. But I could tell he was pleased. It is a rare human being who does not get a warm glow from an honor, especially something as tangible as a statue—or a building!

“Here in the east, any authority is given divine honors—even city magistrates. Of course, that is not the same as divinity. Pompey was hailed as a god, his client Theophanes as ‘savior and benefactor.’ ”

“But these subtle differences—we cannot expect them to be understood in Rome. And in Rome, Dionysus carries a different image from our eastern one. Here he is a rich, benevolent god; he brings fertility, joy, expansion. He is seen as patron of artists and creativity, of civilization itself. There he’s reduced to revelry, drunkenness, Pans and satyrs. It makes it easy for my Roman enemies to attack me.”

I was struck by one thing. “Artists, creativity—it seems that Apollo has usurped these attributes in Rome. And Octavian has lately embraced Apollo, as if both of you are fighting over who can lead the world most creatively.”

“The creativity of Dionysus springs from inner, unnameable forces,” said Antony. “It is that which leaps up, unbidden, unexpected, that makes original connections, surprising even the artist himself, because he does not know where it came from and cannot predict its arrival. That is what makes it seem divine, even to its holder.” He got up from the couch and stood over a small mosaic I had installed in our chamber. It showed a scene from the Nile: tall papyrus reeds, hippopotamuses, boats, and birds. “Who ever first thought of arranging little stones to make a picture? And this picture—it existed inside the artist’s head before a single stone was laid. Or perhaps it grew out of the first stone, uncurling like a fern stalk!” He was growing more and more excited. “And the ideas come and go as they will; they can depart suddenly and without notice. Of all men, I think the artist feels most under the dominance and caprice of the god Dionysus.”

I was struck by his personal knowledge of this. “I think you must have been visited this way yourself,” I said.

“Well, I have never wanted to paint,” he said quickly. “But, it is true…even a battle strategy can suddenly present itself out of nowhere, like an inspiration….” He shook his head, as if to scare away any hovering visitations. “But Apollo is the god of rationality, of ordered thinking. That is the exact opposite of the nameless passion of creation.”

“One needs both, I think. The empire needs both. We need officials who can think calmly and logically, but not be entirely bound by rules.” As I spoke, I knew I was dreaming.

“Such an empire, staffed by such paragons, cannot exist on this earth. We must make do with faulty men and chance.” He was still studying the mosaic. “Egypt has a mighty past.”

“And a strong present,” I said. “But what of the future? What is the future of Egypt?” The prediction of old Ipuwer concerning the silence of the gods troubled me.

“I will tell you,” he said quietly, turning from the mosaic. “It is time I made provision for our children. Shortly I will write my will to dispose of my Roman obligations.”

A will!
Dispose of…
it sounded so ominous. I hated the finality of a will. Yet only a fool does not have one; if you do not provide one, your enemies will attack your heirs.

“I hope you plan to deposit it in a safe place!” was all I said. I was convinced Caesar had had a later will than the one left with the Vestal Virgins, but not safeguarded—a curious sloppiness for one of Caesar’s foresight. If he had, then perhaps Octavian would still be studying in Apollonia, a little-known distant relative of Caesar’s, like his other nephews who had vanished into obscurity. But enough of that, I told myself.

“Yes, it will be delivered into the safekeeping of the Vestal Virgins in Rome,” he said. “There it will remain inviolate until my death. But its contents will not be a secret from you. You shall be present when I dictate it, and Plancus and Titius will serve as witnesses. But we will discuss that later. It chiefly concerns my Roman family. But what of ours? What is their future?”

This was a strange conversation. The only child whose future was a mystery was Caesarion, because of his unique position. “You have already settled Alexander’s,” I said. “He will marry the Median princess and inherit Media. As for Selene, she will marry—someone. The baby, Philadelphos—or the Hedgehog, as you insist on calling him—the throne of Egypt will likely fall to him, as the one Ptolemy remaining behind.”

He stood before me and put his hands on my shoulders. “Such limited dreams, for such an imperial mother,” he said. “You continue to surprise me.”

“They will all have a kingdom. They will all thrive. The brother-and-sister killings that have stained the name of Ptolemy—not to mention hands and daggers—will cease with this generation. What greater achievement could a mother—a Ptolemaic mother, that is—claim?”

He was looking at me with a depth of surprised approval I had never seen in his eyes before. “And you are thought to be wildly, greedily ambitious,” he finally said.

“Because of my goal of reclaiming my ancestral lands? I would call that limited—downright Apollo-like—wishing to regain only lost territory. My house had fallen on such hard times that we had to buy back our throne, and borrow the money to do it! To reverse all that seemed a hard enough task to set myself.”

“Yet now you have achieved it,” he said. “And because success is rewarded by unsought further success, I will tell you: your dreams are too small.”

I laughed, and turned away. No one had ever accused me of that before!

“All the east lies in my hand. I am its ultimate master, both by appointment from Rome as Triumvir and by right of arms as Imperator. I can bestow it where and how I will.” How matter-of-factly he said it. “I think ‘Queen of Egypt’ is too small for you. I think you should be Queen of Kings and of Her Sons Who are Kings. And I think your sons should be kings. Alexander Helios will rule over parts of Armenia, Media, and Parthia, as befits the heir of Alexander himself. Cleopatra Selene, a queen, will be granted Cyrenaica and Crete. Why rely on a husband to grant her a kingdom? And little Hedgehog, Philadelphos—why, he shall also be a king, and rule northern Syria and Cilicia.”

“You are announcing a dynasty,” I said. “A Roman magistrate, you are founding a royal eastern dynasty.” This was odd, unbelievable. What was he thinking?

“No, I am not
founding
it. The house of Ptolemy has existed for three hundred years! I am merely…expanding its scope.”

“And its claims and ambitions,” I said. “You are giving them Roman territory, as well as territory not under your control. Like Parthia!” I could not resist this.

His plan was impulsive, daring. Was that what he meant by Dionysian inspiration? It was not rational; Apollo had certainly not given rise to it.

“I am giving them an idea to pursue,” he said. “Should I not manage to take Parthia, it will be left for them to do.” He paused. “But I plan to. Next year, now that Armenia and Media are secure. I am proud of having won a new Roman province!”

“Have you?” He had never stated this decision about the status of his conquest.

“Yes. Armenia will be converted directly into a province. I have garrisoned it securely this time, under Canidius. I will present this plan to Rome, to be read out and confirmed in the Senate, at the same time as my territorial assignments to you and the children. They will take them all together!” He laughed. “Not that there is any question about it. All my acts here in the east have been approved in advance. It is courtesy only.”

“Are the children not too young for this?” It seemed premature.

“The earlier someone knows his destiny, the better he can follow it. It will forestall all the plots and machinations, and foster peace.”

It seemed a pronouncement of great and unknown consequence. But I have learned that things are seldom offered twice; we have to grasp them when they pass, even if the timing feels wrong. “Very well,” I said. “I am stunned by your elevation of these children to such high positions. After all, you have others….”

“Antyllus, as my eldest son, will be my Roman heir. His brother Iullus—oh, those are all Roman details, of no concern to you now. But my eldest daughter, Antonia, will soon be in our sphere of the world. I am marrying her to Pythodorus of Tralles. He’s as wealthy as a king, and widely respected throughout the east.”

“A Greek from Asia! What will they say in Rome? They won’t consider her legally married.” No Roman would recognize it.

“What they will say is, he must believe in his own foreign marriage, if he allows it for his daughter as well. As you know, we often do things ourselves that we would not approve or wish for our dear ones. I can send no stronger message to Rome. Besides,” he said, grinning, “she will have so much money I don’t think she’ll feel uncompensated!”

So now I sat, awaiting the public pronouncement of the honors we had discussed so lightly in our private chambers. There was another matter, which was not so lightly spoken of or decided, but—of that, later.

As I said, I was dressed as Isis again, and again sat on a golden throne. The silver platform had been erected in front of the Gymnasion, so that spectators could fill the steps along the six-hundred-foot-long side of the building, shaded by the roofed columns. But it was a larger platform than the Triumph’s, and it was constructed with different levels. Antony and I were on the topmost. Just a little lower sat Caesarion, on his own throne. Below him were another three thrones, for the younger children. They were sitting, costumed, staring out at the crowd.

Antony, stately in his Roman toga, rose and addressed the people in his official capacity as Triumvir. He had put aside his other roles, the general, the Autocrator, the New Dionysus, the eastern ruler. He, like me, played many parts. Today he was the civilian Roman magistrate, appointed to govern Rome’s vast territories in the east as its overlord.

“My good people, I stand here before you to make you witnesses of the gifts I bestow today upon the faithful House of Ptolemy—loyal supporters of Rome. And also to honor the great god, Julius Caesar. For your Queen, who has long reigned over you, let her be known henceforth as Queen of Kings, and of Her Sons Who are Kings.” He turned and took my hand, drawing me up to stand beside him. The glare of the sun’s reflection off the silver platform dazzled me, making it hard to see.