The Memoirs of Cleopatra (133 page)

I could delay no longer. It was already late May. Caesarion would have to leave. We had heard that Octavian had now transferred his legions from Asia into Syria. He had gone to Antioch, sitting himself down in our palace, that drafty relic which had served our hours of joy so well. Then he had passed on, going south. He was less than five hundred miles from our eastern border fortress, while Gallus was sitting less than two hundred miles to our west, having already captured our stronghold there. They would close in on us; although the southern desert would remain open, Caesarion had to reach Coptos by mid-June. He must go.

But, O! the world of woe in those three words! I had to cast him adrift at the mercy of fate for the rest of his life. I knew that when he sailed away, I would never see him again.

I would go with him until he reached the main channel of the Nile, and then I must turn back. And so we set out, in a small boat from the steps of the lake harbor, and retraced the journey I had made so many years ago with Mardian, Olympos, and Nebamun, when we ran away from the palace. Now my son was also running away from the palace.

The tall lake reeds had grown thicker than ever, and the boatmen had to work hard to push them aside. They showered us with golden pollen and stirred up pairs of white dancing butterflies to circle our heads. Then we were entering the canal that would bring us to the Canopic branch of the Nile, and from thence into the Nile proper. I almost hated the smoothness of our progress. I had seen to it that the canal was dredged and the weeds cut back, so it was faster going these days.

Once we reached the Canopic branch, we hoisted our sail to catch the north breeze, and made steady progress, past the green fields, the towering palms, the donkeys and their waterwheels.

“The Nile will just be starting to rise down near the first cataract,” I told him. “But you should reach Coptos before the full extent of it.”

“I know.” We were standing by the railing, watching the land slide past, and he covered one of my hands with his. “I have studied all of it extensively.” He gave one of his winning smiles.

Another journey, up the Nile, with Caesar, when this boy was still in my womb—yes, he was retracing that unremembered journey now. “But you have only made the journey once or twice,” I said. I remembered our excursion to Dendera, to show him his portrait as a Pharaoh on the temple walls. “It always looks different when one really sees it, after studying it in books.” I saw how clean and firm his jaw was, tilted up in confidence. He wore Caesar’s mother’s pendant around his neck, the one Caesar had given me when—

Perhaps the worst thing about the end of something is the compulsion to remember and recount all that has come before. The memories were strangling me like the tangle of waterlilies fouling boats’ oars. No more, no more…I ordered my mind to stop, to shut the vivid memories down.

Let me just stand here, on the deck with my son, and be only here, only with him, and only now, I begged.

And it was granted to me, so that all the rest of it fell away like tattered wrappings, and those days were ours alone.

When we reached the Nile proper, a stoutly fitted barge awaited us at the landing just downstream from Memphis. It was not identified as a royal vessel, for I did not want to make Caesarion a target of attention. This one was owned by a grain merchant who was utterly trustworthy. The soldiers and guides who were to accompany him across the desert track to Berenice, and serve as his bodyguard all the way to India, were on board. His tutor, Rhodon, would also make the journey, and had packed two trunks of books.

Now it could be delayed no longer. We must part.

“Can you not come with us as far as the pyramids?” he asked, his eyes searching. “We could stop and have an excursion—”

And see nothing, I thought, because our eyes would be too full of tears.

“No. It is better thus. We will come again, together, in happier days,” I said, letting myself look at his face as if this one last time would somehow give me something different.

He bent and embraced me, his words in my ear. “Oh, Mother,” was all he said.

“May all the gods go with you,” I whispered. “And may your father protect you.” Yes, let the god preserve his son! I held him as close as I could for as long as I could. Then I forced myself to let go, to drop my arms away and step back.

This little space between us, only two feet or so, must grow to enormous lengths, must stretch to almost the width of the world. It was too much to bear to understand it truly.

“Farewell, my son.”

I let him be the one to turn and mount the gangplank to the waiting barge. Against his back I hurled prayer after prayer, beseeching Caesar to come to the aid of his only earthly son and heir.

Do not fail us! I cried from the depths of my soul. Do not fail us now!

The sober return trip was made without sails, as we rode downstream on the Nile current. Caesarion’s barge grew smaller and finally vanished. Just before we steered toward the Canopic branch, we took a connecting canal to halt at the landing for the temple at Heliopolis. I would not go ashore, but I wanted to send greetings to Nakht. He surprised me by hurrying down to the landing stage with two white-robed priests in tow, and then, with my permission, coming aboard.

“Most divine Majesty,” he said, bending low. “I am so thankful you are here. It is in answer to my devout prayers, for there is important news that I could not trust to a messenger.” He indicated the other two priests. “These, my brothers in service to the gods, are from the temples at Philae and at Abydos.”

I was startled; I had not even prayed about this, and yet here they were, the answers. “My heart rejoices to see you,” I said. Both the highest pilgrimage temples of Isis and Osiris had come to me in the persons of these priests.

“We bring you important news,” the taller one—from Philae—said. “The people of Upper Egypt stand ready to rise and fight for you.”

I was deeply touched. This meant that they considered me—a Ptolemy—to be a true Egyptian as well. And offering to do battle was the ultimate proof and sacrifice. But I did not even have to think about it.

“Tell the people I accept their loyalty and pledges, and that I am moved to the depths of my heart to know that they love me as a queen and as one of their own countrymen. But I will not inflict needless suffering on my people.” It was pointless for them to rise against the twenty or more Roman legions. And if even Antony could not bring himself to draw up his forces for battle, trying to hold the line of the Nile, then why should they?

“But—” The priest of Abydos looked dashed.

I held up my hands. “Do not think we belittle the offer. But it would be in vain, and I will spare them any hopeless efforts, which would only lead to harsh punishment.”

They had to accept it. “Very well.”

“But there are two great services you, and only you, can do for me.” I ushered them belowdecks to my private quarters, and there I made the arrangements: with the priest at Philae for the testament I would send him by Olympos; with Nakht of Heliopolis for instructions for him to obey when the time came. Thus I secured both the continuance of my life and the ending of it, through the mercy of Isis.

“Put a few more in this corner.” Antony was directing a servant to upend a basket of rose petals where he stood pointing.

The servant shook the container, and a flood of red and white petals gushed onto the floor. The inimitable smell of roses filled the air.

“Isn’t it something?” Antony asked, his voice betraying nothing but light curiosity. “Why is it that luxury goods always get through a blockade? Cyrenaica may be occupied by hostile forces, Paraetonium in the hands of Gallus, but somehow cargoes of fresh roses continue to reach us.”

“I suppose it’s because they are so unimportant in the eyes of Octavian.” Beauty got through the filter when all else failed, because it was so insubstantial. Yet it can feed us better than food sometimes.

“We must be the most well-fed, pampered siege victims in the history of the world. What they’ve done is to seal us in with all our riches.” He picked up a heavy gold goblet and poured it full. Carefully he looked in it, widening his eyes at the sight within. “Laodicean.” He sipped carefully. “And just think, warehouses full of it, just waiting for us. Ah, what a way to go!”

I imitated him; why not? I might as well drink it as let it turn to vinegar after Octavian took over. The liquid was heady and full of the memories of autumn sun. It caressed my mouth and slicked my lips with sweetness.

“Do you think twenty amphorae are enough for tonight?” he asked, gesturing to the vessels already lined up and waiting.

“That’s almost enough for a legion,” I said. “Surely you don’t expect—”

“Only joking. It’s just for show. Tonight we must be as lavish and overabundant as the Nile Valley after flood time, our bounty bursting from every seam like overripe melons.”

“As overripe as your similes?” I said, smoothing the hair at the back of his head.

That head…
the one Octavian wanted. Now we had each had offers to kill the other; Herod had advised Antony to do away with me, and Octavian had suggested I do the same with Antony. Yet here we were, planning a banquet together in defiance of them both.

“I thought you liked my extravagances,” he said. “In every part of my life. I, who do not withhold rewards, or impulses, or food and drink, am not likely to stint with mere words!” He turned and kissed me. “Nor kisses.”

The wine made a sticky seal of our lips.

“Indeed, no,” I agreed. But this banquet…I could not believe he had wanted to do it.

“Good.” He picked up the goblet again. “Now, as to our guests—amazing how many of the old Incomparables are still about. And of course we’ve got new candidates for the order.” He took a deep swallow of the wine.

“The…order? Antony, what are you thinking of?”

“My secret. My surprise! Just wait and see.”

“Don’t be mysterious. It’s tiresome.” What I meant was that his surprise might be so inappropriate I should know about it in advance, in order that I might be able to stop it.

“Ah, ah!” he wagged his finger at me. “No, you’ll just have to wait, like all the rest!”

“Antony—”

He stepped back. “No! No persuasion! I am a rock, not to be moved!”

“Well, that’s something new,” I said. Why were his surprises always something one had to brace oneself for? “I thought that was Octavian. They say sometimes longtime enemies take on each other’s traits.”

He shrugged. “Then we’d best deplete all the wine in Alexandria in case he wants to drown himself in it, in imitation of me!” He poured more out. “And the best time to start is now.”

I returned to my quarters and let him finish preparing for his…what? I had encouraged his high spirits, I was so fearful of a return of his despair, but I realized this was just its mirror image. At any moment it might turn itself inside out, and the sunny mood show its other side—black opaqueness.

Since Caesarion had left, I had felt some relief. He should be almost to Coptos by now. I had completed most of my other preparations. The treasure-pyramid stood ready for torching in the mausoleum, the sarcophagi were lined and finished, letters had gone out to Media about sheltering Alexander and Selene—but no reply had been received yet. Writing the account of my life absorbed me, gave me solace in the brilliant sunlit days as we waited. I had almost reached the present time in it, and was determined to press on until the very last instant. Then I would trust Mardian and Olympos to write the final chapter. This they could do at their leisure, at as long a perspective as they wished. There was certainly no hurry. I did not expect Isis to reveal it to any eyes until a long time hence. In fact, the further removed it was from this era, the fairer a hearing I was likely to get. But of course that decision lay in her wisdom. It was my task only to write it.

Charmian and Iras had been both sad and solicitous, and I regretted that they were bound up with me. They did not have the choice of leaving, as did lesser people like Plancus and Dellius. What a bitter jest, that bad people are given more freedoms than good ones.

We still had four legions here in Egypt, as well as the Egyptian troops and my Macedonian Household Guard. The fortress at Pelusium was garrisoned with Egyptians to block Octavian’s way. We also had a fleet of some hundred ships—survivors of Actium as well as newly built ones. Attached to the Roman legions was a small but well-trained cavalry force. Also, word had come that the Cyzicus gladiators were still on their way to us, having successfully fought past both Amyntas and the Cilicians. We certainly had enough manpower at our command to put up a fierce defense. But Antony refused to consider deploying the legions or mapping out any strategy at all. He seemed to regard any resistance as futile.

“We are hopelessly outnumbered,” he said. “Why slaughter people needlessly?” I could not object; had I not said exactly the same thing about my supporters in Upper Egypt? But Egyptians far up the Nile could escape any participation, whereas the legions and fleet were already drawn up. It was useless, however, without a leader who wished to lead. And Antony would never lead again.

Admitting it had caused me deep pain. But the price of having him back at all was to watch him step aside from that command he had held for so long, stop exercising its power.

The city now knew all too well what had happened at Actium, and I could feel it holding its breath, waiting to see what would come next. Alexandria had never bent the knee to anyone but Caesar, and that was a fight the Alexandrians themselves had provoked. But this…

Would there be a siege? Would there be fighting in the streets? If people tried to flee, where would they go? They prepared themselves as a city of traders and sophisticates would: they took inventory, kept buying and selling, and tried to figure out ways of escape or bribe or barter. Oh, I knew them, and I knew what they were about. Not for them the heroics of the city of Xanthus, which burnt itself to the ground rather than be taken, nor the weeping and wailing of the Trojans. They gave elegant dinner parties and argued the fine points of philosophical schools of thought in regard to suffering. They downed expensive wine at a ferocious rate, doused themselves in long-hoarded perfume, and draped themselves in jewelry, as if to use it all up this side of the tomb. They would expire wrapped in all the good things of life.

At dusk I began readying myself for Antony’s banquet. Was I not the most Alexandrian of Alexandrians? Should I not therefore enjoy my own royal version of what was taking place in mansions all over the city? Yes, let me put on my best. Let Charmian bring out the red Grecian gown with the pearl border and gold fringe. And let there be the brooch given me by the King of Pontus, mounded with gems from beyond the Black Sea, to pin the shoulder folds. Around my neck must lie the glittering wedding necklace. And yes—where was the gold bracelet the Kandake had presented me? I wanted it weighing heavy on my arm.

And as for perfume—I had more than any merchant. Aromatic oils lay waiting in their stoppered alabaster bottles: lily, rose, narcissus, hyacinth. Tonight I would not choose rose; I wanted to smell different from the rest of the room. Narcissus, that would do. Its rainy dark scent was perfect for this gathering of the doomed.

Iras spread delicate oil on my cheeks, making tiny circles. She dabbed reddened ointment on my lips, rubbing it in carefully.

“Your skin was always your beauty,” she said. “And it looks no different now from when you were twenty.”

“Well, I am almost twice that,” I said. But most likely I was never to reach forty.

She took a comb and began to dress my hair. Usually Iras did it, but tonight I preferred Charmian. The feel of her hands, drawing my hair into a thick rope, pulling it out to its full length, was very soothing.

“Shall I braid it?” she asked. “Small braids to frame the rest?”

“As you like,” I said. In the heat of the evening, I wanted it up off my neck.

My hair, always my vanity. I had tended it carefully all the years, and it had certainly rewarded me, giving me the illusion of beauty. I had indeed been blessed in the hair the gods saw fit to give me.

“There’s so much of it,” Charmian complained. “I do not think I can gather it all up in this fillet.”

“Then let some of it escape over the sides.” Just as long as it did not lie damp on my neck.

“There.” She handed me a polished mirror and let me stare at myself.

The face looking back did not show all it had been through. It was as if I had willed my body not to absorb the blows of my experiences, and it had obeyed. There was nothing written on the clear eyes, the arched brows, the smooth and unlined skin—nothing of childbirth, field conditions, trial, or pain. I looked like a virgin of the world. I laughed out loud, seeing it.

“My lady?” Charmian frowned. “Don’t you like it? I can redo—”

“The hair is fine,” I assured her. “I was just marveling at how heavy blows don’t always imprint themselves on our flesh.”

“I think it must be either the flesh or the soul,” said Charmian quietly.

“Then I am sure it is my soul and spirit that have taken the brunt of it,” I said. I wondered what they would look like, in a mirror. Better not to see.

I rose. Time to be going, time to be mirthful.

The chamber was filled with people—where had Antony rounded them all up? They were jolly, wearing bright colors and flashing jewelry. They were mainly Romans, doubtless from the legions, but there were also Alexandrians from the Gymnasion, the Library, the Museion, and Zeus only knew where else. They had the flushed and expensive look of aristocrats, except for the token philosophers there. And even they were well-to-do, mostly adherents of the school of Epicurus.

The delicate scent of the roses, their perfume released by feet treading upon them, filled the room. I breathed deeply, trying to pretend, for one brief moment, that I was in a garden rather than here. But the buzz of voices, the heat from so many bodies, and the tinkling music from harpists made that impossible.

“A crown, most gracious Queen,” one of the servants said, coming toward me holding an elaborate chaplet of willow leaves, berries of nightshade, and poppies. I allowed myself to be crowned, although the plants were associated with the underworld.

Antony saw me and immediately rushed over. “Welcome, my heart!” he said, offering me a brimming goblet of what proved to be rose-flavored wine. “Drink, drink of Lethe, and remember nothing!”

If only that were possible! But this wine could not do it.

“Who would have thought there were so many?” he asked, looking around. The milling company filled the room, making colorful eddies around one speaker or another.

“So many what?” I asked. “So many high-spirited Alexandrians?”

“You will see,” he said.

I saw stands holding bowls filled with gold coins, into which people dipped their hands, helping themselves as they passed. I also saw some familiar objects: actors’ masks, the bust of Octavian, some gold vessels and plate on a display table.

I saw no dining couches or tables anywhere. “When do we dine?” I asked.

He shrugged. “When it seems right. I cannot predict.”

“But the food—”

“Oh, that’s no problem,” he said airily. “The food will always be done to perfection. I have the kitchens preparing a dozen oxen, all roasting at different rates, so one of them will be exactly right whenever we choose to eat.”

My mouth fell open. The waste! Was he mad?

“What are we saving it for?” he said, answering my thoughts. “Let us leave the pastures empty, the kitchens bare, to greet Octavian.” He drank some more Lethe. “Let us strip ourselves bare before Death does it.”

He was always theatrical—was this only a performance? Or was he
pretending
to give a performance to mask his real intentions?

“Ah—and here is our true host,” he said, greeting someone costumed as Hades, lord of the underworld. His black cloak dragged on the ground, and he had a circlet depicting flickering flames around his head.

Silently he bowed. Behind his eye-mask I could see dark irises.

“Are you prepared to welcome such a large company?” Antony asked. “They are here to be initiated.”

Hades turned his head slowly. “The company may not be as large as you suppose,” he said, with a voice that suggested hollows, wells, caves: hints of ripples, drips, echoes. “Do not be disappointed if they do not all wish to set their feet upon the sill of night.” He gave a smooth, but infinitely unpleasant, little laugh. “It is, after all, still high summer here. But doubtless there will be enough to have made my journey worthwhile.” He bowed supplely and insinuated himself in the crowd, disappearing.

“Who was
that
?” I asked. He was too realistic.

“Isn’t he marvelous?” said Antony. “He’s a well-known actor here in Greek comedies.”

“Comedies? Clearly he’s missed his calling.”

Antony steered me past a knot of men and women encircling someone holding forth on the meaning of life.

“Young, young, he’s very young,” said Antony. “All the young philosophers like to declaim on
that
topic.”

Behind me I could hear him droning, “Whether one is or is not, one and the others in relation to themselves and one another, all of them, in every way, are and are not, and appear to be and appear not to be.”