The Memoirs of Cleopatra (107 page)

He led me into an adjoining room. It, too, was austerely furnished. A large scroll lay on a table, another piece of paper under it. A single lamp had been left burning.

“The gift must be suited to the person,” he said quietly. “I know many of the things you hold precious. It is my good fortune to be able to find them and give them to you—nay, to lay them at your feet.” With that, he took the scroll and, going on one knee, indeed placed it at my feet.

I felt embarrassed. “There is no need for this,” I said. But he remained kneeling.

“It is myself I lay at your feet. But you know that; you have known it for a long time. These are just tokens.” He picked up the scroll and handed it to me.

I unrolled it. On the smooth parchment was a deed giving me the entire library of Pergamon. Pergamon, our rival, both in books and in paper.

“Pergamon!” I said. “The entire library?”

“Yes, all two hundred thousand volumes,” he said. “They are to be transported here immediately.”

“The finest in the world, outside of Alexandria…” I was dazed. “And now we will have it all!”

“I know a warehouse of books was destroyed in the fire on the docks when Caesar was here,” he said. “I hope this can make up for the loss.”

This was extravagant, like all his gestures. It took the breath away with its daring and generosity. “I…I thank you,” I finally said. The Pergamon library, in its entirety!

“That was for your head,” he said, rising and taking up the second piece of paper. What else could there be? “This is for your heart—or your eyes.” He handed it to me like a child presenting a wilted bouquet of wildflowers.

It was a drawing of Hercules, beautifully executed, based on the famous statue by Myron.

“I know how you love sculpture, the capturing of the human form in bronze or stone, so that it remains forever held in its perfection. This, after all, is over four hundred years old—but his muscles are not withered, his belly does not sag, his legs are not weak.”

Yes, only art could preserve youth and strength. Perhaps that is why we treasure it so. Already I was older than the Venus statue in Rome; it remained, I aged. How would I feel, seeing it now?

“I thank you,” I said. How cherished he made me feel, knowing my heart’s desires and trying to fill them.

“It should arrive within forty days,” he said.

I looked at the paper. “But—” I already held it.

“This is not the gift!” He laughed. “No, the gift is the statue itself. The original. By Myron.”

“What? But it is in the Temple of Hera on Samos!”

He shrugged. “I told you everything lies within my gift. I had it removed.”

He had robbed the temple of its famous statue!

“It is being packed now, and—”

I threw my arms around him, almost knocking him off his feet. “You are a madman!” I cried. The Myron Hercules—to be brought here! “Oh, a madman!” I grabbed his head and pulled him down toward me. I kissed him joyfully. Then I let my hands go down his neck and embrace his shoulders, his magnificent wide shoulders. Even the Myron statue could not have better shoulders.

His arms tightened around me. I felt the same desire and eagerness that being held next to him could always evoke in me. It seemed a long time since we had embraced privately. We were so surrounded by people, so hemmed in by duties and official schedules, as well as our children, that we were seldom alone. Since he had returned from Armenia it had been one ceremony, meeting, or public appearance or obligation after another.

“Now, my Queen,” he said, “let us give ourselves the best gift of all. Privacy, and time.”

The quiet, empty, plain chamber seemed wildly exciting to me. No one would come in. No herald would announce a meeting. No Iras or Charmian or Mardian. Even Eros was nowhere to be seen.

“Come.” He led me into his bedroom, which was surely as simple as anything of Cato’s. We stood in the middle of the floor, kissing, running our arms up and down each other’s back, thighs, shoulders. I rejoiced in the very feel of his body, in everything about it. There was not a single thing I would change. Marble might be eternal, but perishable flesh was warm.

His mouth on mine tasted better than all the delicacies of the banquet. His lips were a feast, and I drew out every morsel of pleasure from them. But unlike food, the more I took, the more I wanted.

I felt that I must possess him—must possess all that manly beauty, all that strength. But how? Simple possession is all very well for scrolls and statues, but for another person—how can we fully possess that? We have an instant in lovemaking when we feel we have achieved it, but it is not achievable…and so we fall away, separate and still wanting.

We fell on the bed, as hard as a camp bed set up in a common soldier’s tent. Was it thus to remind him of who he was? We pulled at one another’s clothes, as fevered as any simple infantryman and his local woman. I pushed at the stubborn tunic guarding his shoulders—why was it so sturdy, so tight? His sandals had been flung on the floor, and his strong bare legs twined about mine, pushing, straining. My sandals were gone also, and my feet traced patterns up and down his legs, lightly, teasingly.

I kissed the scars on his arms, his shoulders, leaning over to kiss his back where there were still more. I held out his right hand, touching the scar that marked the bad cut Olympos had treated. That precious hand, strong again now, that had almost been lost. I felt myself close to tears.

“O dear gods, it has been so long….” I heard his faint words, spoken more to himself than to me.

The tunic was gone at last, and my gown, crumpled and discarded, was no longer between us. The delicious feel of flesh against flesh spread warmly over me. The weight of his body, the muscled heaviness of it, pressed against me. I rejoiced in it; he was still a lion, his power not spent, regardless of what his enemies hinted.

“I swear, by all the gods,” he murmured, his mouth right beside my ear, “this is all I want, in all the world.”

I could not think of anything else; the world had perished for me. I only wanted him—only him, to be possessed by me. To be part of me.

“My dearest,” I said. I touched his hair, traced his face under my fingers. I could feel the bones underneath, could outline his eye sockets, his cheekbones. Every part of him was dear, even the parts I would never see and could only touch through the medium of its covering flesh.

“Keep me,” he said. “For whatever you treasure and protect will endure.”

Odd saying, odd request. But I barely heard it, for my yearning to possess him, even in the limited way flesh can, was so strong it was singing in my ears.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, of course…”

I felt him move on me, start the act that must always end, but at the time seems eternal, above all else.

“Ahh.” He gave a cry of great happiness, asking nothing more than that moment which still lay before us.

“Be seated, my friends,” said Antony, freshly barbered, bathed, and wearing a toga so new and white it looked bleached. He indicated the chairs drawn up around his worktable that gloomy day.

Plancus and Titius complied. They, too, were scrubbed and shaved, and wore their official clothing—the attire a governor assumed when he gave audiences and heard petitions in Syria and Asia.

Two scribes were hovering, and of course there were refreshments to hand, as if the work was going to be arduous. Outside a dismal rain was falling. It was winter in Alexandria. But that was preferable to winter in Antioch. At least it did not snow here.

Antony put on a long face. “In every man’s life, there comes a time when…he must think of…” He turned his head toward the small mausoleum outside, adjoining the temple of Isis.

Plancus and Titius shifted on their seats, bracing themselves for Antony to announce his mortal illness. They looked at one another.

“Of late I have realized something…something I would rather not admit…but face it I must…”

Now the two men listened alertly. Of what was he dying?

Antony hesitated so long it seemed as if he were struggling mightily with himself to divulge a shameful secret. “I do not have a will,” he said flippantly. “And I need one.”

Was it disappointment that crossed the faces of Plancus and Titius? I do not think so, as such, but there is a little corner in us that relishes morbid news—concerning others, that is.

“Oh,” said Plancus.

“And since you hold my signet ring and are empowered to answer my official correspondence, I thought you and your nephew would make excellent witnesses. Are you willing to serve as such?”

“Yes…yes, of course.” Titius gave a hearty assent.

“Now,” said Antony, “I have already made a list, here, of my wishes, but of course they have to be translated into legal language.” He waved a piece of paper, scribbled all over. “The scribes will do so, and you will hear my depositions from my own mouth.” He looked at them. “Wine?” His hand hesitated over the pitcher.

“Not
now
,” said Plancus, with high dignity, as if he had never worn the blue paint.

“Then let us proceed.” Antony’s eyes ran down the paper. “First, it is my wish that my eldest son Marcus Antonius shall inherit half my estate….” He went on with the list of bequests to his minor children by Fulvia and Octavia. Why had he insisted on my being present? Of what concern was it to me? I did not begrudge his Roman children their Roman property.

“I furthermore desire that my sons Alexander Helios and Ptolemy Philadelphos shall each inherit one of my estates in Campania, and that my daughter Cleopatra Selene shall inherit my house on the Esquiline.”

Now Plancus frowned. “Good sir,” he said. The scribe stopped writing. “How can you will Roman property to these children? You know in Roman law—”

“Am I not the sole owner of it? Why may I not distribute it as I please? If I wished to burn it up and destroy it, I am within my rights to do so. Therefore, by extension, I should be able to dispose of it however I wish in any other fashion.”

“But the law—”

“The law is outmoded and needs to be changed,” said Antony airily. “Perhaps this will prove a stimulus for just that.” He nodded to the scribe and repeated the bequests. “And now write this: that I affirm that Ptolemy Caesar is the true and legitimate son of the late Julius Caesar and thereby entitled to all his estate. The grandnephew Gaius Octavius should surrender said estate and restore it to its rightful owner, cease using the name of Caesar, and revert to his birth name of Gaius Octavius Thurinus.”

Titius lurched forward. “This does not belong in your will! You have no right to dictate what property of others goes where.”

“Do you object to my claim?” Antony was staring at him.

“That is just it, it is not
your
claim, it is a claim on someone else’s behalf.”

“He is my stepson, under my protection. I am his kinsman and Roman guardian, in the place of his fallen father. Who else should make it?”

“But it does not belong in a will!” Plancus sounded alarmed.

“Leave it be!” commanded Antony. “It is for the record only. After all—my will will not be read for many, many years.” He smiled. “I intend to live as long as Varro.”

Varro, the old historian, was already eighty-two and still writing, although he claimed it was “time to gather his baggage for the last journey.” It would be quite a load of baggage, requiring a train of mules; he owned an extensive library.

“Then, sir, I suggest you retire from politics, as did he,” said Plancus coldly. “Public life and long life seldom go hand in hand.”

Antony stared at him. “Thank you, Plancus,” he finally said. He took up his paper again. “Now, one last thing. At my death, after the customary funeral procession through the Forum, I wish to be brought to Alexandria, there to lie next to my wife. We will share a tomb.”

Everyone was shocked into utter stillness, including me.

“Yes, sir,” muttered Plancus finally,

“You have heard all these provisions,” said Antony. “Now witness my seal and signature on the papers.”

Obediently they watched as he made them official.

“I will deposit a copy of this with the Vestal Virgins for safekeeping. I want to ensure that what happened to Caesar does not happen to me; I want there to be no question about my wishes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But in the meantime I must swear you to absolute secrecy.”

“Yes, sir.”

They left as soon as he released them.

When they were gone, I turned to Antony. I was shaken. “Why have you done this?” I asked.

“What, don’t you want me buried beside you?” He put on a mock look of hurt.

“I mean—why did you announce all this to Plancus and Titius? They will never keep it to themselves.”

“I don’t mean them to. Let Octavian know we challenge him. Of course the will cannot be read publicly; the Vestals cannot release it. But just the rumors should cause him worry enough.”

“Do you…do you really mean to be buried here? Abandon your family tomb in Rome?”

“You cannot be buried in it. You must be here, with your royal ancestors. And I would not be separated from you. I like it little enough in life. I will not have it in death.”

I leaned against him. Outside, the cold rain was dripping. It was a tomblike day.

“I am touched,” was all I could say.

“In three months I will be departing for Armenia, and from thence back to Parthia, this time to finish what I started last year. I would not leave or go into battle again without this—settled,”

Another battle. More deaths. I was weary of it, and more apprehensive than ever. How much longer would Antony be guarded from harm?

“I have been attacked,” said Antony, in wonder. He was holding a thick letter, direct from Rome. “Octavian has publicly attacked me!” He seemed stunned.

“What of it?” I said. I wiggled my fingers to be handed the letter, but Antony just kept clutching it.

“In public! In the Senate! He—you know he was to be Consul this year, as I was last year. But, just as I could not go to Rome to serve my term, and only ‘served’ one day, January first, so he has done the same. He is hurrying back to Illyria. But during that one day of office, he stood up in the Senate and—oh, here, read it yourself!”

He thrust the letter at me—at last. It was from Marcus Aemilius Scaurus, one of Antony’s party in Rome, and a senator.

I put it down. “So. Let us wait for this letter from Octavian.”

Antony looked morose.

“Do not trouble yourself about it,” I said. “It is all staged.”

In due time two letters arrived, one official, one personal. In the official one, Octavian complained in lofty language about Antony’s appointments in the east, and criticized his judgment. The personal one adopted a sneering tone.

“The nerve!” yelled Antony. “Implying I am crazy!” He smacked the letter. “How dare he?”

“Stop yelling,” I said, “or you
will
sound crazy.”

“And what about the way he calls you ‘that Egyptian Queen’—as if you didn’t have a name!”

“He knows my name well enough,” I said. “Just as he knows Caesarion’s.” I thought the attack was a good sign. It meant that we had touched a raw nerve, and he felt threatened by our claims.

“I’ll answer right now!” shouted Antony.

“No, not now!” I said.

“Yes, now!” He grabbed a pitcher of wine and poured himself an enormous cup. “And in my own hand!” He rifled through his writing-box and extracted all the materials, then started writing furiously. Finally he thrust the letter at me.

I burst out laughing. “What a picture—all of them at once. He must have a wall-to-wall pallet.”

“He does. He likes a large gathering.” Antony drained his cup, and poured another one.

“It’s very funny, but it doesn’t really answer the accusations.”

“I don’t care! Let him know I know the truth about his pious act. I will answer the political charges in a separate letter.” He paused. “He doesn’t even
mention
Armenia! Can it be so unimportant that I won a new province for Rome? What has
he
ever done that’s comparable?”

Later, in a sober letter, he duly set out his complaints about Octavian, taking his stand on solemn promises and on strict legality. His fellow Triumvir had shown ill faith toward him, in refusing to send him the four legions he was owed under the terms of the treaty of Tarentum, in not allowing him to recruit new soldiers in Italy, in giving his veterans inferior land grants, and in unilaterally deposing Lepidus from office and appropriating all of Lepidus’s territories and legions, rather than dividing them. All these failed to honor the terms of their alliance. As for Caesarion and Cleopatra—the Queen was his wife, and had been Caesar’s, and Ptolemy Caesar was their legitimate son. But that was a different matter altogether from the legal misbehavior of Octavian in their partnership.