The Memoirs of Cleopatra (92 page)

Antony saw me and waved, then trotted over. “I’ll bring another horse for you, and we’ll see the siege and field artillery,” he said. His spirits were high, and I could tell he thought no more of the night in the tent, but only of the challenge before him.

Together we rode to the far end of the staging field, where the road led off to the south, upon which the wagons would soon trundle and the troops march.

Before me lay what looked like a city—piles of logs cut into sections, thousands of stakes, and massive wheeled machines on thick frames. And, lying on a train of flat wagons, an enormous ram, its iron head gleaming gray in the sunlight.

“How can this ever be transported?” I asked, in wonder. The sheer length of the ram would make it difficult to carry on twisting trails.

“The individual wagons are flexible,” said Antony. “They can bend to fit around curves.”

“But the ram itself is not,” I pointed out. “And its very length—it would breach the gates of heaven. What do you anticipate using it on?”

“It is eighty feet long,” he said proudly. “In the open country where we are going, there is no timber. We have to bring our own siege works.”

I felt apprehensive looking at all this. It seemed a chain of iron to tie them down, rather than equipment necessary to win. “Curses that they must be located on a flat, treeless plain! And guarded by mountains.” An ominous combination.

“I will have to divide the army,” he said. “Naturally the foot soldiers will move more quickly than the heavy equipment. But others have done this successfully; it should cause us no hardship.”

“And these?” I pointed to the clumsy wheeled machines lying placidly in the field.

“The biggest one is the ‘wild ass’—called that because of its kick.” It looked like a gigantic grasshopper to me. “It can hurl a boulder over into the forest there—about a quarter of a mile. We use it to break down city walls, or to crush men and horses. There are smaller catapults, of course, that throw lighter stones for shorter distances to give covering fire for the troops as they advance on the enemy.”

There were so many of these machines in the field they looked like a herd of animals grazing. Again, my heart sank. How was all this to climb over the mountains?

A blare of trumpets announced the arrival of Artavasdes and his cavalry, trotting proudly toward the parade grounds. The jingle of their bronze bridle ornaments made music in the air. Following behind were the brightly costumed foot soldiers, so much more conspicuous than the Romans. The army was assembling; it was almost time to depart.

By noon they had left, the commanders with their guards riding past the stand where I and my people were watching, followed by the troops marching in columns, the trumpeters, the medical detachment, the artillery and food stores, and the endless baggage wagons and laden mules. It took almost two hours for the entire force to pass by, and another hour before it disappeared from view along the riverbed.

I had wanted to see the departure, but I dreaded the long campaign ahead of them. I wondered why Caesar had been so eager to embark on it, and whether even he had realized what an undertaking it would have been. I had cut short an audience with a self-styled pundit on Roman affairs who had remarked that perhaps the very best of Caesar’s famous luck had come to him on the Ides of March. By dying then, he had saved himself from two very possible ignominious ends to a glorious career: either to be King of Rome and not be able to manage his subjects, or to be cut down in Parthia. Perhaps the man had spoken truer than I had admitted. Certainly even Caesar would not have found the Parthians an easy conquest. Their very location, so difficult to reach, served as protective insulation; a Roman army would exhaust itself before ever encountering them.

I sighed and finally turned my gaze from the empty road. We would have to spend the night here, and this time there was no avoiding Artavasdes’ palace. Its dreariness exactly fitted my mood.

The curious lack of words had stayed with us to the end. Antony merely saluted me from horseback, and I raised my hand to him, silently.

Tomorrow I must begin my own long journey, traveling down the banks of the Euphrates, ice-green and flat, until I reached Syria. Then I would go due south and enter Judaea, where I had told Herod I would meet him in Jerusalem. I had little heart for it; if I could have waved my hand and been back in Egypt, that is what I would have chosen to do. I felt drained, mainly from seeing Antony off with his army, but also from the early stages of my pregnancy. Another child, and I was no longer so young—I would be almost thirty-four by the time it was born. I wondered idly if I would name it something to do with Parthia, commemorating a victory there? But it would be too early to know the outcome by then.

Antony was my partner in all things, and together we dreamed of ruling over a world empire, stretching from Spain in the west to Parthia in the east, from Britain in the north to Nubia, in the south. I knew he loved me deeply, enough to alienate his family and jeopardize his standing in Rome for my sake. I had three children, all heirs to a rich future, assuring us of our dynasty. But I felt curiously alone, and very tired. At the same time I wished I could change my mind and gallop after Antony, surprising him in his tent late that night. I imagined it in vivid detail for a moment; yes, if I rode away now…But no. It was too late. The sun was already touching the tops of the trees to the west.

My journey southward was uneventful, but all the time my mind was with Antony’s army as it marched farther and farther away. For the first few days I knew I could still ride fast and overtake them—should I need to—but after that the distance was too great, and we were gyres widening in opposite directions. I had to commend him into the hands of the gods, of his own patrons Dionysus and Hercules, and pray for their goodwill toward him.

I forced myself to turn my attention to the lands lying before me, lands that had just been returned to Ptolemaic possession after two hundred years—thanks to Antony. I traveled through Damascus—mine!—and down the Via Maris to pass through my seaports of Ptolemais Ace, once the center of Ptolemy Philadelphos’s rule of Phoenicia, and Joppa and Ashdod. The flat coastline showed what poor material the Phoenicians and Israelites had for seaports; there was no natural harbor the whole length of the land. The beaches stretched down to the water, allowing for no anchorage and no protection against the wind. At Joppa, men had constructed a facsimile of a harbor, but it was a poor thing compared to Alexandria’s. Nonetheless, I found the country appealing; its climate was more temperate than Egypt’s, and it actually had rainfall, making for flowers and green meadows, and trees other than palms.

I was deeply grateful that this land had been restored to my family. How my ancestor Ptolemy Philadelphos would smile. Perhaps…yes, perhaps it would be fitting to name this new baby after him, to mark the restoration of our ancient kingdom.

A deputation of Herod’s—mounted on fine chargers, richly dressed—met us outside Joppa.

“In the name of Herod, King of the Jews, we welcome you to Judaea,” said one.

“And will conduct you to Jerusalem, where our lord awaits you,” said another. They smiled as though Herod’s sole desire were to see me.

As we made our way to the city, the hills, covered in pines and aromatic shrubs, gave way to steeper ground with chalky white rocks rising from the soil. The air grew cooler, the air seemingly finer. I was anxious to see the famous Jerusalem, about which so many claims were made. Like Athens, it was more than a city, it was magic, history, a rarefied site. Men who were more than men had walked, written, and died here. But since the Jews did not believe in demigods, these heroes had a unique, though limited, aura. In any other culture, David would have ascended to godhood, Solomon reigned eternally, and Moses hovered beneficently forever. Yet the Jews stated firmly, “He was gathered to his fathers” their bones were in the earth.

Just as the horses were becoming fatigued from the climb, Jerusalem opened out before us. Spread out on its mountaintop, it was not a large city, but it was glorious. A bank of gray clouds parted overhead to let beams of sunlight hit the yellow-gold walls and buildings, making them glow.

The recently rebuilt walls of the city were broken only by strongly fortified gates, through which we were escorted with due ceremony. More ceremony on the other side, and then we were sped to Herod’s palace, where he awaited us.

In the four years since I had seen him, even more had happened to him than to me. While Antony and Octavian had granted him the title of king, they had left him to secure the land for himself. The Parthians had overrun his country and taken Jerusalem; Herod and two Roman legions had fought bitterly to evict them. He was left the victor of a war-damaged city and an empty treasury. But he was a king, and he had been right to refuse my offer to command Egyptian forces. Knowing he would never be satisfied with less than he now grasped, he was a wise man, albeit a tired one.

“My dearest Queen, most exalted Cleopatra,” he said, coming toward me, hands outstretched. A radiant smile lit his face, and one would never guess that I had just stripped large portions of his kingdom from him. He dared not alienate Antony—or Antony’s wife. A complaint from me, and Antony would investigate. A word from Antony, and he was dethroned. And so—“My dearest Queen!”

“Herod, my friend,” I said, extending my hand to him—the one with the wedding ring, and Antony’s seal. “It is my pleasure to see you here, in your rightful kingdom.”

His smile slackened a little. His kingdom would have been bigger, but for me. “It has been a long four years,” he admitted. “But the struggle was worth it.”

“Where territory is concerned, it always is,” I agreed.

“Come, come,” he said, leading the way to his rooftop, where chairs, couches, awnings and potted plants made a shaded garden of retreat.

The hills spread out on all sides, and I found myself looking out over the roofs of the city. It was a fetching sight, as Jerusalem lay on many different levels. On the highest ground was a flat plateau, embellished buildings rising in its center.

“Our temple,” he said, pointing to it. “I am afraid the grounds were damaged in the fighting, but at least it was not desecrated.” He paused. “When Pompey came here, the year Octavian was born, he actually entered the Holy of Holies. An unbeliever! Although he didn’t touch anything, the few minutes he spent in there meant it was desecrated.” Herod sounded more annoyed than offended. “It was expensive to get it cleansed and restored! Ah well.” He nodded to his servitor, who brought a tray of goblets for us.

I tasted the sweet yellow liquid; its fiery strength burned my lips. Watching me, Herod gave a soft chuckle.

“This is the famous wine made from your new palm grove in Jericho,” he said. “They call them ‘hangover palms’ because of the strength of the brew. Now you understand why people pay so dearly for it.” Again, no trace of any resentment; he might have been talking about a bouquet of flowers or a handkerchief, rather than a considerable source of income lost to him.

“Its sweet taste disguises its power,” I said. “It ought to be called ‘the scorpion’ for its sting.”

“Of course you will want to inspect the palm and balsam plantations,” he said, “as well as your bitumen site on the Dead Sea. So I have made arrangements for an excursion tomorrow. We will have to depart before dawn, as it is so beastly hot this time of year.”

I was indeed curious to see them, and particularly the Dead Sea, that unique body of water that was more mineral than anything else. They said the waters were so heavy that a man could not sink in them, and so bitter that if you breathed them in, your lungs would never recover. Bits of asphalt bitumen rose to the surface at the southern end of the sea, and were skimmed off to be used in various ways: for mummification, for protection against pests in vineyards, for medicine, and for mortar. Again, a lucrative holding for Egypt.

“I have had an idea,” he said casually, as if it was of no moment. “Why concern yourself with the management of these things ? What a nuisance for you—having to station Egyptian officials in Jericho and on the ungodly shores of the Dead Sea. Who would want to be exiled there?”

“I thought Jericho was considered a pleasant place,” I said. “Is it not an oasis? I have even heard rumors that you plan to build yourself a palace there.” I smiled sweetly at him; let him know I was no fool, and made it my business to know what went on everywhere.

“You have heard much,” he replied. “But where you can have heard that—why, I have scarcely the money to rebuild the damaged walls of Jerusalem! In order to present my Imperator Antony with a worthy wedding gift, I was forced to melt down my plate.”

Yes, I remembered the gold platter he had sent. “It was very beautiful,” I told him.

He nodded. “Thank you. I hope Antony was pleased. Now, as to my proposal—I would be honored if you would allow me to rent the balsam and palm groves from you, for their true worth. That way you would receive the income, but be spared the bother of having to manage them. And”—he acted as though he had just now thought of this—“I will undertake to collect your fees from the Arabs across the Dead Sea who extract the bitumen. What do you think of this idea?”

I thought that it meant he wished to keep my agents out of his country—an understandable desire. Jericho was too close to Jerusalem, and he did not want an Egyptian listening post in his neighborhood.

“I think it has merit,” I said. No need to acquiesce just yet; let him wonder.

“Think on it,” he said. “Now let me show you the very spot where our King David looked out and saw Bathsheba on her rooftop—”

Even in midsummer, dawn was cool in Jerusalem. I had to pull two covers over me during the night, and when I was awakened to dress, I needed a wool wrap. But as soon as the sun struck the desert just beyond the city gates, the air heated rapidly.

Never have I seen a quicker change of climate and terrain than that which lies between Jerusalem and Jericho. For a little way the road skirts the city, high on its mountaintop, then abruptly it descends into a reddish wilderness of rock and sand. The road is notorious for bandits, and it is easy to see why: there is nothing on either side but cliffs and gulleys, good hiding places for thieves but offering no mercy for travelers.

The sun beat down on us, and I was glad to pull a covering over my head. After a long, winding way, I saw the plain open up before us, shimmering in the haze and sunlight. A bright green spot marked where Jericho stood, and the flat blue surface of the Dead Sea stretched far away on the right. I was surprised at how piercingly, pleasingly blue the waters looked. I could even make out ripples on the surface, puffed by the winds. Somehow I had expected it to be dull, flat, and metallic—to look unlike water.

Jericho was a city of palms; they were everywhere, their arching fronds beckoning welcome. Flat-topped houses clustered in their shade, and the entire city exhaled an air of pleasure and leisure. Despite his disclaimers, Herod had a sizable dwelling there. He ushered our party inside, where we were met with plates of melon, diluted goblets of the palm wine, and platters of the famous dates. They were enormous, plump, and tangy.

“And here, the balm.” A servant proffered a flask of balm of Gilead, one of the costliest ointments in the world. It came from the small groves in Jericho; the bush that yielded it was reputed to grow nowhere else in the world. I held out my hands while the servant poured a few drops into my palms, then massaged them into my skin. They were absorbed as if by magic, leaving no greasy stain behind, but only a delightful aroma.

“When the heat abates, in the cool of the twilight, we shall inspect the groves,” Herod said. “I know you will wish to see them.”

The shadows were lengthening when we saw, from horseback, the small grove of balsam bushes. They were planted in neat rows, with irrigation ditches between them, and numerous guards stationed at the fence.

“The resin is collected from the stems,” said Herod. “It oozes out by itself, but if it is slow in coming, the keepers wound the tree and collect it.”

“I see it must be guarded,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “It is as precious as gold. After all, it is used in holy oil, to heal wounds, and to make costly perfume. Now, as to my offer—”

“I appreciate it,” I said. “And I think I will agree.” He smiled. “But only on condition that your gardeners make cuttings for me while we are at the Dead Sea tomorrow. I wish to try to grow them in Egypt.” His smile faded.

The cliffs on the western side of the Dead Sea were pockmarked with caves and ledges, and radiated heat. We passed them, umbrellas shielding us from the glare that glanced off the sea and the landscape. The sea stretched far away, and it did not look dead. There were waves on its surface, and birds flew over it. But a strange haze lay upon it, a cloud and yet not a cloud; and Herod pointed out that not a single plant grew by its shore.

“It is a lake with no life at all—no seaweed, no fish, no crabs, no slime, no shells. There is no odor of anything but brine, and a corpse placed in it would not be eaten or rot, but float, preserved, on its surface.”

On closer inspection, it did look different, and soon crusts and eruptions of white salt reared up in its shallows. We were nearing the area where the bitumen also arose. I could smell sulfur and other foul odors.

“Put your hand in it,” said Herod, when we had dismounted near the station where the bitumen was extracted. I walked over the rocky shore and dipped my finger in, bringing a few drops to my mouth. They were horribly bitter and sour. In an instant the water dried on my hand, making a dull white crust.

“You are turning into a pillar of salt, like Lot’s wife,” he said. He motioned for a jar of sweet water to be poured over my hand, rinsing it.

I would not wish my officials to be stationed here, unless they deserved punishment. Let natives deal with this hellish place.

I looked at Herod. I was sorry we must be adversaries over territory and Antony’s patronage. He was a likable man, and clearly a resourceful one. But we had our separate wants, desires, and ambitions. It was nothing personal. We could be polite, and observe all the pleasantries. That was the civilized way, and we were children of ancient civilizations.

Leaving Herod, I made my way slowly down the Mediterranean coast, stopping in Ashkelon, still a free city, and Gaza, then traversing the waterless desert strip until we reached the Pelusic branch of the Nile. We transferred to a ship and sailed toward Memphis; on the way I ordered my balsam shrub cuttings to be planted at Heliopolis, a site sacred to the Pharaohs that seemed to offer good conditions for the bushes to thrive. If they did, I would have done the next best thing to finding new gold mines in my land. I was determined to increase my country’s wealth any way I could.