The Memoirs of Cleopatra (50 page)

“I believe so,” he said.

“I wish you and Agrippa a safe journey,” I said. “No more shipwrecks! And I hope your training is everything you desire.” I looked at him: at his pure, incandescent features, his wide-set eyes, his light tousled hair. All I thought at the time was, Caesar’s family is a handsome one.

“I have benefited from knowing you,” I added.

“And I from knowing you,” he said, his pleasant smile in place.

And that, I swear, was my last meeting with him, the last words we ever spoke face-to-face. How the gods like to mock us! I sift that meeting time and again, as if some portentous words might flutter out of my memory. But there were none. Nothing but a cordial farewell between two people who loved Caesar well, and would have died for him.

The streets were jammed. My litter could scarcely make any headway. The jostling and pushing meant that the litter rode as roughly as if we had been at sea—and indeed, that was where we were, attempting to tack through a heaving sea of people.

“This is fun!” said Ptolemy, peering out the side. His voice was weak; with the return of the cold weather, his cough and debility had come back.

I wished I had not yielded to Caesar and stayed on so long. Now we were trapped until spring. I longed for the wide streets of Alexandria, where the thoroughfares were never choked like this. We had started out to visit the quarters of the silver-and goldsmiths, because Ptolemy wished to watch them at work. He had a decided artistic bent, especially for design. The arrangements had been made days in advance; they were expecting us at their workshops, and here we were, stuck en route.

What was causing this? I glared out of the litter, as if I could shrivel up the culprit with my gaze. All I saw was the vast throng of heads and shoulders; then I caught sight of an outsized statue lurching along in an open wagon, secured by ropes. Behind it, a little way away, came another. I did not recognize them.

“Look!” cried Ptolemy, pointing. “It’s Caesar over there, on those steps!”

I turned to see; indeed, Caesar and some others were standing on the steps of the Theater of Pompey and its attached buildings, bigger than the theater itself.

“That way!” I commanded the bearers, and they turned abruptly and made their way across the road.

What a grandiose building this was, I thought. It looked almost as though it belonged in Alexandria.

Caesar watched us approaching, and came over to us.

“So this draws even you?” he asked, bending down and peering in at us.

“No,” I said. “We happen to be here by accident. What is it?”

“Why, it is the day of the restoration of the statues,” he said. “Come, and watch.” When he saw my reluctance, he said, “Wherever you were going, you cannot get there. You might as well join us.” He held out his hand and helped us out. He did not let go of mine as he returned to his spot on the stairs.

“What a day, eh?” said a man I recognized as Lepidus after a moment of memory-searching. “Who would have thought they’d return?”

“Out of storage,” said another man—Marc Antony. “Get the cobwebs off them, they’ll be as good as new.”

“Yes, never throw anything away,” said the woman standing beside him; it was Fulvia, his new wife. “That’s what I always say.”

“It couldn’t be about household things,” said Lepidus. “For all the world knows you aren’t concerned about those.”

Fulvia did not look amused. “I manage well enough,” she said finally. “I have not heard Antony complaining.” She looked to him to agree.

“No, no,” he said. “Nothing to complain about.” He turned to me. “In Egypt you celebrate the resurrection of the dead,” he said. “This is the first time it has happened in Rome. The statues of the vanquished and the forbidden are rising once again on their pedestals.”

An extraordinarily large one was approaching, swaying on its cart, steadied by workers. Two tired-looking oxen, their horns down, plodded toward the theater, drawing the load.

“It’s Pompey,” said Caesar to me. “Do you recognize his moonlike face?”

“Yes,” I said, “although it has been many years.” Thank the gods I had not seen him, at the end, as Caesar had. I paused. “Why are you bringing his statue back?”

“His
statues
,” Caesar corrected me. “All over the city, they are being put back. Along with Sulla’s.”

“But why?” It seemed very odd to me.

“To show that the upheavals and civil wars of Rome are over,” Caesar said. “Now our heroes can be appreciated for their deeds, their bravery or ingenuity, without reference to the particular party they belonged to. All that is past!”

“So you wish,” said Fulvia sharply. “But it will take more than just putting old statues back on their bases to make things right!” I looked carefully at her then. She was classically lovely, but her fierceness of expression made me think of Athena with her war helmet on. She looked like a woman, but her words and manner were something else again.

“You just want a lot of other statues to keep yours company,” said Antony to Caesar. “So many of yours are going up, you don’t want them to be lonely!”

“Oh, honestly, Antony!” Fulvia glared at him. “Sometimes you sound like a fool!”

“Shut up, my love,” said Antony lightly. “Let’s see—there are to be two on the Rostra and one in each temple in Rome, as well as one in each city in the country and the provinces. It’s a good thing they can all be copied from one model, or else you’d get tired of posing, dear Caesar.”

“A ruler should never get tired of posing,” said Fulvia. “In some countries it’s their main occupation. What about Egypt?” She shot the question at me like a challenge.

What was wrong with her? She seemed itching for a fight. But as a queen, I would not give her the satisfaction.

“Perhaps you have not seen the statue of Cleopatra I have put in the temple of my ancestors,” said Caesar quietly. “I suggest you do so. It will answer your questions.”

Fulvia scowled and walked toward the cart, on the pretext of inspecting the statue of Pompey, which the workmen were wrapping in a sheet and binding to a wooden platform, prior to lifting it out and carrying it into the building.

Lepidus burst into laughter and clapped his hand over his mouth, but Antony roared, as if he cared not if everyone in the vicinity heard him. It was a laugh of pure delight, such as I had seldom heard from an adult. Usually that unbridled happiness dies with our childhood.

“Hush,” said Caesar. “The Fierce One will hear you!”

Then all three of the men howled like little boys. Caesar dropped my hand and clutched his sides. He laughed until tears came from the corners of his eyes. “What’s so funny?” asked Ptolemy, puzzled. He looked around curiously.

“Something Roman men find amusing,” I said. “Wives.”

A vendor carrying a basket of sausages and bread was wending his way through the crowd, crying out to advertise his wares.

“Let’s buy his whole basket!” said Antony, waving his arms. “Over here, over here!” He jumped up and down.

The man hitched up his tunic and climbed the stairs expectantly. He had a pet monkey perched on his shoulder. “You’ll find these are the best,” he said. “Sausage from Lucania, bread baked this morning of fine
simila
!”

“We’ll take the whole lot of it!” said Antony. “Oh—and your monkey, too!”

The man was taken aback. “But she’s not for sale.”

Antony looked disappointed. “Then we’ll forgo the sale. You see, it’s the monkey we really wanted.”

“But, sir—she’s a favorite of my children…however, if…perhaps…” He looked dismal. “Could you not take the basket instead?”

“No. What use do I have for a basket?” Antony was stern. “It’s the monkey or nothing.”

“Well…very well, if you must…” He reached to take her off his shoulder, and very slowly handed her to Antony, who encircled her with one of his muscular forearms.

“Wonderful! Fulvia has long had a recipe for monkey brains,” he said gleefully.

The man went white, and Antony could not continue. Gently he handed the monkey back. “It was a jest,” he said. “Keep your monkey. I have no need of one.” He laughed. “After all, if a man has children, what does he need a monkey for? They look the same, and behave the same, too. But we
will
buy all your sausages, good sir.”

After the man had left, clutching his monkey, Lepidus loaded his hands with the bread and sausages, and tasted one.

“Strong!” he said. “Rather much basil, and way too much garlic. I suspect it must be hiding something. Why didn’t you at least sample one before buying them all?”

Antony, munching on a sausage, shrugged. “Too much trouble,” he said. “Besides, I planned to give most of them away.” He yelled out at the crowd standing on the steps. “Here! Free sausage and bread! Help yourselves, courtesy of Marcus Antonius, Consul-elect, bridegroom-suspect—”

Caesar started laughing again. “Hush. Or Fulvia will beat you, and I will cancel the appointment.”

“Along with all those other new appointments you have made?” Antony turned toward me, as to a confidant. “Caesar has increased the number of senators from six hundred to nearly nine hundred. Downright barbarians, some of them, imported from Gaul. Sure to cause comment. No one will notice me; I’m much too ordinary.”

“These were the men who helped me to victory. If it had been pirates and cutthroats, they too would have their reward,” said Caesar. “At least they were my friends, and loyal to me.”

“But they wear trousers!” lamented Lepidus. “Trousers instead of togas!” Trousers in the Senate house! The end of the world has come!”

“That’s absurd,” said Caesar. “Here they will put on togas, regardless of what they wear at home.”

The men heaving the statue up the steps were groaning, and I could see the figure sliding slightly on its platform. But they were almost to the top.

“Come,” said Antony. “You don’t plan to watch it being put on its pedestal? Let’s go have some fun. I know a place—”

Caesar gave a mock moan. “No plays. No chariot races.”

“I know,” said Antony. “Let’s go to the athletic field and have a race. As we used to. Do you remember?” He leaned over and put his arm around Caesar’s shoulder.

“Yes, I remember,” said Caesar. “I wonder if I can still beat you.”

“Come and see,” said Antony. “Come and see. But I warn you—”

Laughing, they descended the steps together, Caesar walking lightly.

I will always remember that day on the steps; it consoles me when I think the world is a sorrowful place. Joy sticks in the memory, bright and burnished, leaping out across the years. It is a thing pure in itself, joy, and the rarest of traits among men.

It was time for the Saturnalia again, that holiday celebrating license. I understood it a little better now; it seemed to have something to do with Saturn, but why that meant everyone should wear the cap of liberty, and slaves and masters change places, and the toga be forbidden, I did not know. People were permitted to say all sorts of things that would normally be out of order, so those seven days made for lively listening.

Houses were opened to friends, and they streamed in, passing from one dwelling to another, exchanging gifts. Those gifts were curious, often one thing disguised as another—candles that looked like food, food that looked like jewelry, plants painted to look like stone carvings. Some of the larger households appointed a master of ceremonies, a
Saturnalicius princes
, who ordered people to perform—sing, dance, recite poetry. Caesar held open house, allowing people to circulate freely in and out of his doors, and up on the Palatine, Cicero did likewise, as did Antony in Pompey’s former palace nearby, and nearly every other Roman with a hand in politics. It was an opportunity to show those Roman virtues of accessibility and generosity—and a way to please the people that was less bloody than the games.

Because Ptolemy had begged to go—he wanted to dress himself as a eunuch and pretend to be Mardian—I agreed to visit a few homes.

“But not all of them!” I warned him. “I won’t go house to house. It is not what queens and kings do.”

“But we won’t be queens and kings. I’m Mardian!”

“How will anyone know who you are supposed to be? No one here knows Mardian, except Caesar. And how can you dress like a eunuch? They dress like anyone else.” I hated to deflate him, but the truth was the truth.

“I’ll speak in a high voice,” he said.

“But your voice
is
high,” I reminded him. “I think the eunuch idea is…too far-fetched. Why don’t you be something else, like a pirate or a gladiator? Or a chariot racer? There are lots of slave and freedman roles you can play.”

“Is my voice really that high? As high as a eunuch’s?” He sounded distressed.

“It hasn’t changed yet,” I said. “Perhaps by this time next year…” I sighed. I hoped he was not going to worry about it. There was enough to worry about in his persistent cough. “Now, what can I be? Not a queen…I won’t be a serving girl, it’s too expected…. I suppose I could be a gladiator myself…that is, unless you want to be.”

“Oh, no,
you
be the gladiator,” he said quickly. “But are women gladiators?”

“I think I have heard of some,” I said. But had I? Perhaps it was my imagination.

“What sort of sword will you carry? Do you want a net and trident?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I think that Decimus, Caesar’s favorite general, has a school of gladiators. I’m sure he’ll provide me a costume. But I think a net and trident would be awkward in the crowds, don’t you?”

“It would be fun to accidentally poke some people—like Cicero! Or that Fulvia!”

“Cicero would likely cry, and then compose an essay about it,” I said. “And Fulvia—she probably carries a trident herself at all times, well sharpened. I wouldn’t want to give her the excuse of using it.”

The short winter’s day was already growing dim by the time we entered Caesar’s doors. His atrium, his dining room, his garden were packed with people, most with the cap of liberty, denoting freed slaves, perched on their heads. The din was overwhelming.