The Memoirs of Cleopatra (106 page)

“And I further declare,” he said, so loudly that even the farthest bystander could not fail to hear the words, “that she is the widow of Julius Caesar, having been his true and legal wife by contracting a marriage after the eastern rite.” A hush fell on the crowd, as severe as if a giant hand had pushed itself down on their heads. I felt his hand tremble. He had not spoken of this to me, had not warned me. Perhaps he had wanted to ensure my blank stare.

“And I hereby swear that their son, Ptolemy Caesar, seated here, is the true and legitimate son of the great Caesar, and his only heir.”

I had not thought it possible that the silence could deepen, but it did. Antony’s hand was grasping mine so hard it began to ache. At the same time it grew slippery with sweat.

“Stand, young Caesar,” commanded Antony. “Stand, and let your people see you and acknowledge you.”

Slowly Caesarion stood up. He had grown tall; he was over thirteen now, and his head was almost level with Antony’s. Antony had insisted he wear his best Roman attire today, without saying why.

Shyly he smiled at the people, and made a gesture to them. They cheered warmly.

“As son of Caesar, he is due honors from Rome. But as a Ptolemy and eldest son of Queen Cleopatra, he rules as co-ruler of the land of Egypt and Cyprus and reigns as King of Kings, and overlord of the other territories to be henceforth bestowed.”

Again that hush. King of Kings was an ancient, honorific eastern title, borne by the Persians. So Caesarion was to be both eastern and western ruler; he was to bind the two worlds together after Antony and I had left the stage of life.

“Next,” he said, “I declare that Alexander Helios is King of Armenia, overlord of Media and of all territory east of the Euphrates as far as India.”

King of Armenia? How could there be a king of a Roman province? Antony had not explained this. Was it only a portion of Armenia? But now was not the time to ask.

“Rise, King Alexander,” said Antony.

The boy rose, wearing the costume carefully crafted for him: that of a Persian king. There was a high royal tiara—the Persian crown—swathed in a white turban, decorated with a peacock feather. He wore baggy trousers and a jeweled cloak, which glittered in the sun, intensified by the beaten silver of the platform, acting as a gigantic mirror.

Now the Armenian bodyguards, also costumed, stepped up to make a frame around him. The crowd cheered.

“And Queen Cleopatra Selene,” said Antony, stepping over to where our daughter sat on her little throne, waiting. “You rule Cyrenaica and Crete. Rise, please.” She stood solemnly, her silver gown hanging to the floor, making her one with it, a slender silver flower growing out of the silver ground. Her bodyguard, dressed in Grecian soldiers’ attire, carried silver shields.

“And King Ptolemy Philadelphos.” Antony made his way to the tiny throne of the two-year-old boy, who sat looking apprehensive. He had never seen so many people, or been made to sit by himself for so long. “You are to rule the middle Syrian territories, and Cilicia, and be overlord of Pontus, Galatia, and Cappadocia, westward from the Euphrates as far as the Hellespont.” Antony bent down and took his chubby hand. “Rise.” He gently pulled the child up, so that everyone could see—as he stood there on wobbly feet—that he wore a royal Macedonian costume of purple cloak, diademed hat, and Macedonian high boots. To complete the picture, he had a Macedonian bodyguard to serve him.

“Now, all good citizens of Alexandria, Rome, and Egypt—let us rejoice in this happy day! I have issued today a new coin marking the occasion. It honors Queen Cleopatra, with the legend ‘Queen of Kings and of Her Sons Who are Kings,’ and me, with the legend ‘Armenia Conquered.’ May it serve to remind us of those achievements when we behold it with our eyes, and may it serve to enrich us when it is in our purses!” With that, he hurled a handful of the shiny silver
denarii
out into the crowd, who roared and scrambled for them.

When he saw how that at last released the crowd—which had been subdued and confused—he quickly motioned for more bags of money to be opened and thrown to the people. Now the shouts and cheering rose.

“Always money,” he said, as he returned to my side, standing straight. “I think it is the great joy-giver, more than wine.”

“Everyone loves money, while not everyone cares for wine,” I said. I was as confused as the rest of the crowd. It was all I could think of to say.

There was, of course, a banquet and celebration in the palace immediately following. While the rest of the populace dispersed, those of our party were to be entertained extravagantly—as befitted a family of kings, kings of kings, queens, and…what was Antony? Obviously, if he had the power to create and appoint kings of kings, he must be above them, but…It was all very ill-defined. Did “Autocrator” adequately describe this overarching authority?

In the huge hall, its red porphyry pillars twined with garlands, a light sprinkling of rose petals underfoot, long swaths of blue silk were strung between columns. They billowed and fluttered in the wind rising from the harbor below, the scent of crushed rose petals perfuming the air. I put my arms proudly around the shoulders of Selene and Alexander.

“You looked impressive today,” I told them. I wondered how it felt to be proclaimed special so early, to have your kingdom handed to you? I hoped it would not stifle them, make it so easy that in later life they could not face difficulties. The ceremonial bodyguards were still surrounding them, and I gave them a look. Time to melt away; the play was over.

“I suppose I’ll like Cyrene,” said Selene. “Because it’s right next to Egypt. And I can stay there, and let the men come to
me—
as you did.”

I laughed. Selene seemed at times very grown up; she saw things clearly.

“Yes, it’s convenient to have a kingdom of your own,” I said.

The silver dress became her, but Alexander was about to trip over his baggy Persian trousers. He slid about awkwardly.

Antony was carrying Philadelphos, letting the child peer over his shoulder. The cap and diadem were too big, and kept falling over one eye. Antony was turning around and around, and Philadelphos was squealing with delight. Antony’s cloak flapped and flew out. Suddenly he grasped its fastening, unhooked it, and threw it out over the crowd. It flew a little way, like a purple bat.

Plancus caught it, and came over to me, clutching it like a holy relic. “Although I would keep this myself—to treasure it as belonging to the Imperator on this glorious day—yet I must return it. I am no thief!” His broad, tanned face radiated sincerity.

“No, keep it,” I said. “He who discards something valuable cannot expect to recover it. It must go where it was thrown. In this case, how fortunate that it fell into friendly hands!”

He looked as though I had bestowed a kingdom on
him
. It struck me as odd even then.

Marcus Titius and Domitius Ahenobarbus, who had traveled here for the ceremony, joined us. Plancus was holding up the cloak like a trophy, and they purported to feel slighted.

“This is a day for prizes for everyone,” I said. “I cannot give you kingdoms, but what of a city? Would you like a city named for you?”

They looked taken aback, Ahenobarbus especially. As an old-style Republican, it was far from proper for him. But I could see that the flattery of it appealed even to him. Titius, of course, was always ready to help himself to honors.

“I shall rename two cities in Cilicia, calling them Titiopolis and Domitiopolis,” I said.

They both gave up trying to suppress grins.

“Your Majesty,” said Titius, “what can I say—besides offering my undying gratitude?” His handsome lean face grew even handsomer. He bent and kissed my hand, letting his warm lips linger there a little overlong.

“Madam”—a ticklish matter of names; Republican Ahenobarbus never called me by my royal title—“you are most generous.” He bowed stiffly.

The wine was flowing; I had ordered dozens of amphorae of the best Chian to be poured unstintingly. As for the banquet itself, it was worthy of the imagination of Octavian and his loyal, bought poets. Every delicacy from land, air, and sea was presented. There were sea creatures, shellfish, boar, beef, even hippopotamus and crocodile; crane, quail, thrush, peacock, flamingo; sweet melons, cucumbers, grapes, figs, dates; honey cakes, custard, and juices of pomegranate, mulberries, and cherries cooled with Thracian snow. I was most proud of the last; it was not easy to have a mound of snow preserved hundreds of miles from its home, and in hot Egypt.

At the presentation of each new course, the murmurs of approval rose, until they reached a continual high hum, penetrated now and then by the sound of the lyres, lutes, and flutes from the musicians in the back of the hall. The cooled juices, carried in on platters and embedded in the snow, elicited an uproar.

Caesarion was lounging next to the Roman generals on their dining couches; the children—the Kings and Queen—nearby. How well Caesarion seemed to fit in with them! How poised he was. How…Roman. I watched the faces of the generals and caught them scrutinizing him when they thought they were unobserved.

“Entertainment! Entertainment!” Some of the more inebriated guests began demanding the next stage. I had planned for dancers, as well as acrobats and something seldom seen—trained monkeys to perform on the pillars. The dancers, lithe young women who moved with skill and grace, were too tame for them today. The acrobats were boring to this sophisticated—and drunken—audience. The monkeys amused them briefly, but their loud yelling frightened the creatures off. I had only one more thing in reserve: a troupe of Dionysian actors who were to enact a drama about Pluto and Persephone. People always liked that, because it had entertaining elements like Hades (with smoke and fire), Cerberus (with his three heads; it was always impressive if they could each emit a bark), the boatman of the Styx, and of course the violence of Persephone’s abduction. There could also be decorations like flowers, chariots, falling leaves, and so on.

If this failed to amuse or quiet them…

For a few minutes all went well, but then the noise and stirring started again. Suddenly, Plancus lurched to his feet and ran out of the hall. He must have eaten so much he was sick. Romans did that, much to the disdain of Greeks and more sophisticated peoples.

Then he reappeared—naked and painted blue. Wearing a crown of reeds, he brandished a trident and wove his way over to the astonished actors. “Glaucus, the man of the sea, is here!” he yelled. He got down on his hands and knees and I saw, with astonishment, that he had fastened a fishtail on himself, and now he proceeded to wiggle it at the audience.

Utter silence reigned; then the company and guests burst into laughter. This was evidently their idea of high humor. I looked at Antony, who was also roaring with laughter, and of course the children found it just to their level of taste. But that a Roman general, the governor of a province, should behave so…

I would never understand Romans. Antony was right.

I looked at Plancus with distaste. And this was what thought itself fit to rule the world!

Late that night, the guests gone, the rose petals mangled, the silk banners tattered and torn from the antics of the frightened monkeys, Antony and I stood in the echoing empty hall. The children had long since been sent to bed, even Caesarion, and we stood surveying the mess, our arms around each other.

“Alexandria will never forget it,” he said. “Such a day comes but once in everyone’s lifetime.”

“Thanks be to Isis!” I did not think I could live through another one.

“I think the honors were well received,” he said cautiously.

“Here, yes. How Octavian will receive them is another matter.”

“The east is mine to dispose of how I will. Rome appointed me its overlord.”

“I meant in proclaiming Caesarion the true heir of Caesar,” I said. “It is nothing less than a declaration of war. That was your intention?”

“I—it is not necessarily so,” he said. “But it is true, and men must not be allowed to forget it.”

“Why did you not warn me of this? Or did you only do it on impulse?” It seemed to me that every important action of his life had been undertaken on a whim. His funeral speech for Caesar; his coming to my cabin at Tarsus; his marriage to Octavia, and his sending her away; now this. Things that decided his fate, chosen offhandedly.

“No. It was not an impulse. It was the right thing to do. It
is
true.” He was stubbornly going to keep repeating that. “Surely I haven’t displeased you? Isn’t it time someone finally took up Caesarion’s cause? It seems that is the last duty I can render my fallen chief.” He looked so dedicated, so determined.

“No, of course I am not displeased.” I would just have liked to be consulted.

“Come!” he said, tugging on my arm. “Everyone has received honors today but you. Did you think you were forgotten?”

“I already have so much—what more can I be given?” Not that I would mind his making a present of Herod’s entire country to me.

“You’ll see. You must come to my apartments tonight. We will sleep there.”

Arm in arm we traversed the corridors of the palace. A brisk wind was sweeping through the windows and porticoes, as if to bear away the stale odors of the riotous banquet. A number of Romans had indeed been sick, and the servants were scrubbing the steps and floors.

Antony’s quarters were on the other side of the palace, overlooking the open sea and away from the Lighthouse. I knew he liked watching the ocean, and I knew he also needed a retreat from the rest of the palace, as if he had a private residence. This had met the requirements very nicely.

“Enter.” Antony twisted open the doors and ushered me in, as if he were my private attendant.

I always liked coming here. He had furnished the rooms with tables, chairs, and chests from his estates in Rome. Much of it was old-fashioned, having been in his family a long time, but perhaps it made him feel less in exile. Part of him must feel that way, regardless of his affinity for life here. One would have expected him to have created a showcase of oriental luxury, with mother-of-pearl screens, brocaded cushions, pillowed couches, beaded curtains. Instead he lived in Republican propriety. He was a complex man.