The Memoirs of Cleopatra (22 page)

“Then you should make the most of it as well,” I said. “I hope the monuments are worth it.”

I waited for him to say,
It is more than the monuments
, but he only gave a sort of grunt.

I felt him hesitate, then stumble. He pitched forward, and fell stiffly to his knees, before sprawling out, and making a choking sound. It happened so quickly that I had no chance to say a word or react. He lay on the ground, and his limbs thrashed and stiffened as if he were in the most excruciating pain. But he was silent, except for that one first cry.

I fell to my knees beside him, frantic. What had happened? Had someone been lurking behind a rock, and thrown a dagger? Had a serpent struck, darting out from a rock underfoot? Had he been poisoned by a secret enemy who had had access to his food earlier in the day?

With all my strength, I pushed his shoulders and turned him over. He was limp, like a—a dead body. His face was covered with sand where he had fallen facedown. My heart was racing so fast I could hardly think; I was confused; only when I put my hand on his chest could I feel that he was still breathing.

“O gods!” I cried. “Save him, save him, what have you done to him?” I moaned like one of the hyenas. He could not die, he could not, he could not leave me. It was impossible for Caesar to die so easily, so suddenly.

He groaned, and stirred. I felt his flaccid limbs begin to fill with life again. His breathing was rough and strained. I brushed the sand from his lips and nose. It was all I could think of to do—a useless little gesture. I kept brushing it off, getting it off his forehead, blowing it out of his ears.

Finally his lips parted and he murmured, “So now you know.”

“Know what?”

“That I have—that I am afflicted with—the falling sickness.” He struggled to sit up, but his arms would not quite obey him. “It has struck me…just in this last year. I never know when…it will come. I see a flash of light, there are sounds—and then weakness and falling.”

“Do you—see anything in the flashes of light?”

“Do the gods speak to me, you mean? No. Or if they do, they allow me so little time to hear them before I lose consciousness that when I wake up…I know no more than before.” He was unable to speak anymore; he had exhausted his little store of strength. He fell immediately into a profound sleep. There was nothing I could do but stay with him out on the bleak, silvery desert while the moon stared down at the fallen general. I took off my cloak and covered him; then, cold myself, I crawled under it and lay shivering beside him.

It was still dark, although the moon was now behind the pyramids, making them huge black triangles, when Caesar stirred and was taken with a violent fit of shivering. He shook himself awake, and frightened me. What was happening? Was this a second, fiercer attack? I flung myself on him, trying to stop the shaking.

“I am freezing,” he muttered. “Where am I?” He looked up at the night sky, pierced all over with stars. He rolled over, feeling for the stones that had been cutting into his back.

He remembered nothing! I marveled at it. Yet he seemed himself again.

“You were taken…ill,” I said. “It was necessary to rest here. Come, can you walk? The tent will have a pallet—more comfortable than this unyielding ground.”

Slowly he sat up, then pulled himself to his feet. His legs were quivering. He put one in front of the other and began walking stiffly to the tent.

Once inside, he crawled onto the pallet and once again was immediately asleep. I heard him breathing softly, and each breath seemed like a miracle.

I could see the hard shadows grow longer and longer outside and then fade away as the sky lightened. I had not slept at all.

The sun was up. At any moment, servants would be coming to get us. I dared not wake him until he was ready, yet I did not wish anyone else to see him like this and know what had happened. Stay away! I begged them in my mind. I knew the captain would want to get under sail early.

My thoughts must have had power of their own, for Caesar awoke. He flinched a little at the bright light coming in the tent, and shielded his eyes. He groaned like a man who has had too much to drink—but no more than that.

“I feel dreadful,” he said simply. “I am sorry you had to witness this.”

“Who better than I?” I said. “But I was frightened—I did not expect it, and I did not know what to do.”

“There is nothing to do,” he said, and his voice sounded half disgusted and half resigned. “Someday I will hit my head on a stone or a metal statue, and that will be the end of it. Desert sand is more forgiving than marble or bronze. This time I was lucky.”

“Has this ever happened during a—a battle?” It was a terrible affliction for a soldier.

“No. Not yet.” He shook his head. “I must hide the evidence before someone comes. Is there water here?”

I brought over the pitcher and poured some into a bowl. “Here, you must let me help you.” I washed the dirt off his face, revealing the bruises and scratches underneath. “We must pretend we have had a fight,” I said lightly.

“Greetings, O mighty rulers!” a cheerful voice announced itself outside the tent.

He was quiet that day, but the only change in him anyone could have observed was that he sat more than usual, watching the journey from a seat under the shaded pavilion, rather than standing at the rail. Once during the day he turned to me and looked at me so searchingly I knew all the memory had returned to him, and that he was grateful for what I had done to help. I was glad he had remembered. Now he would understand my love for him.

It took us twenty days to sail as far upriver as Thebes. All the way, people lined the riverbanks, straining to catch a glimpse of these modern Pharaohs who were sailing in state, followed by a great flotilla of boats. The wind lifted our cloaks, and we gave royal acknowledgment to our onlookers with a wave of our hands. Caesar, now fully recovered, took it all in: the adulation, the yearning of the people for a god.
Isis!
they called to me as we floated past.
Amun!
they saluted him, and he allowed them to do so.

After thirty-five days we reached the first cataract of the Nile, Aswan, the end of our journey. Here it proved impossible to drag the enormous barge overland to avoid the treacherous rocks in the river’s channel, and so we had to stop. Caesar had seen Egypt from north to south. But his soldiers were growing restless and uneasy on this journey farther and farther south, along what looked to be a never-ending highway of water, into the heart of Africa. And as it became hotter and hotter, one late afternoon, when the sun’s rays were especially burning, Caesar beckoned to an attendant to fan him with the ostrich-feather fan.

“I yield,” he said to me with a smile. “I capitulate. Here, in your land, for your climate, I admit that your fans are superior.”

Did he remember his wager? Should I remind him? But this should mean more to him than just a wager.

“Show me the Temple of Philae,” he said. “Have a priest ready.”

So it was that I first entered the temple that came to mean more to me than any other. Your home, O Isis, on that island sanctuary where the most devoted rites are held, and pilgrims from all over Egypt and Nubia come to worship you. I had heard it was beautiful, but I was unprepared for its white, ivorylike purity, its perfect proportions of marble and graceful carvings. Across on its sister island lies the shrine of Osiris, and like a faithful wife, every ten days you, in the form of your statue, make the journey across the waters to visit him. What more fitting place for a wedding than at your very feet? Your statue, all overlaid with gold, watched over us as Caesar took my hand and said the words that constituted marriage under the rites of Isis. He repeated the words after the priest in a whisper, in the Egyptian tongue.

Afterward he said, “I don’t have the slightest idea what I just promised.”

“You promised to bind yourself to me in marriage, on your honor to Isis.”

“Very well,” he said with nonchalance. “Caesar always keeps his promises.”

I was stabbed with disappointment and hurt; he acted as if he had just purchased a handful of dates in the market, and it was all the same to him whether they should be edible or not. It was just a game to him, or something to satisfy a child. But he had made marriage vows, and there were witnesses to the ceremony.

On our journey back to Alexandria, it was formally announced at Thebes and Memphis: The god Amun, in his incarnation as Julius Caesar, and the goddess Isis, his wife, in the incarnation of Queen Cleopatra, were going to bring forth a royal, divine child. It had to be announced, as my pregnancy was now obvious. At Hermonthis, construction began on a birth-house that would commemorate the royal birth and make clear his parentage. Amun’s face bore an exact resemblance to Caesar’s.

He seemed amused, pleased, even. But now that he was my “husband,” I felt farther from him than before. It was as if the ceremony had separated us rather than uniting us, and made us awkward together. I think it was because neither of us really knew what it meant, and we were each afraid to ask the other. I did not want to hear him say,
I did it for fun, as part of my forfeit
, and he did not want to hear me say,
Now you must announce this at Rome, and divorce Calpurnia
. As long as neither of us mentioned it, we could live as before.

In vain on the return journey I longed for him to tell me he loved me, and considered me in some fashion his wife. He was jolly, entertaining, lighthearted. He was a passionate lover, an attentive listener. But he never alluded to the brief ceremony at Philae, and I did not dare do so, as the boat came closer and closer to Alexandria.

We halted at Memphis, and anchored the ships across the waters from the white walls of the city and the groves of sycamores that threw their flat shade on the procession way. As we approached it, and I saw the stepped pyramid of Saqqara rearing its head, I felt oppression overtaking me. We were reentering the world of politics, commerce, wars, and alliances, leaving behind the realm of gods, temples, and mysteries. The only flicker of worldly matters that had interfered with our idyll had been Caesar’s interest in Coptos on our homeward journey. He had wished to know more about the India trade routes that passed that way. When he had mentioned India, the covetous look had passed over his face again. But the intrusion had been brief.

Now, however, Memphis sat on the border of the wider world for us, a world that would reclaim Caesar—I knew it. And before we had properly set the anchors and aligned the ship, a smaller vessel full of Romans was paddling furiously out to us.

“Caesar!” cried an officer I recognized, Rufio, whom Caesar had left guarding Alexandria. “Caesar!”

Never one to hide in his cabin or dismiss business, Caesar waved to him enthusiastically. I almost hated him for that; it made him seem the slave of someone else’s urgencies. (Since then I have been accused of having the “eastern vice” for not respecting time or messengers. I do—but at my convenience, not theirs.) Rufio was soon on board, and Caesar was greeting him like a long-lost brother.

“How black you are burnt, Caesar!” cried Rufio. “Has the sun turned you into a Nubian?” He cast an eye toward the ostrich-fan bearers in obvious disapproval.

Caesar laughed and said, “I have seen much and gone many miles, but I am still Caesar, under this sunburn.” Then the dreaded question. “What news?”

Rufio pulled out a sheaf of papers and waved them at Caesar, who pushed them aside. “No, tell me yourself. It is quicker. Alexandria?”

“Alexandria is quiet. No more fight in them. But in Pontus—King Pharnaces has overrun your general Calvinus, taken the Roman province, and slaughtered or castrated all the Roman merchants and citizens. He assumes he can get away with this because you are too…preoccupied.”

“Calvinus! He sent his Thirty-seventh Legion to us here—and left himself unprotected.” Caesar’s good-natured mien faded. “He must be avenged.”

“You have a full platter of wrongs to avenge, then.” Now Rufio seemed apologetic at having to heap them all up. “The reports we have received from the west of Alexandria is that the remainders of the forces of Pompey, including his sons, are gathering along the shores of North Africa, trafficking with King Juba of Numidia.”

“The only question, then, is which one I must address myself to first.”

“Precisely.” Only then did Rufio take any notice of me, standing near Caesar. “Greetings to you, most exalted Queen.”

“I am always pleased to see you, Rufio, but your news is not as welcome as you are.” It was true, I had always liked Rufio. He was a freedman’s son, with a broad, toadlike face, but pleasant nonetheless. It is a mystery to me what makes one person more inherently appealing company than another.

“Will the world never be a quiet place?” barked Caesar, as if, momentarily, the constant tasks were too much even for him. He sounded worn out, even after six weeks of rest.

“Not much longer, my dearest,” I assured him. “In only a little while, when you return to Rome—”

“Rome is a mess,” said Rufio bluntly.

Caesar started. “Here, come below to our stateroom,” he said. “These are not matters we can discuss in passing on deck.” He turned on his heel and expected us to follow.

He made his way down the ebony-trimmed steps and into the great chamber in the midsection of the ship, where he and I had consulted with the captain, studied maps and manuscripts relating to our journey, and held conferences with the accompanying Roman officers every so often. He sat on the edge of a long table of polished cypress wood, one of his legs dangling.

“Now,” he said.

I pulled up a gilded chair and indicated that Rufio should do likewise. “There
are
chairs,” I said pointedly to Caesar. “Or are you already in a war camp?”

He grabbed one and jerked it up to the table.

“What of Rome?” he asked in that low voice, full of menace and tension. I had almost forgotten it on the trip.

“It is all in disarray,” said Rufio. “There have been no leaders there since you passed through it a year and a half ago. Your lieutenant Marc Antony may be a good fighting man, but as a political deputy, he seems in water beyond his depth. There has been fighting in the Forum, Antony’s men against Dolabella’s mob, with eight hundred killed. There’s also a mutiny of your veterans in the Italian countryside. They say they haven’t had their promised rewards.”

“Anything more?” asked Caesar.

“No.” Rufio looked surprised that he would even ask. Wasn’t that enough?

“I have been in Egypt eight months now,” said Caesar slowly. “I came in pursuit of Pompey and became embroiled in another war. I have lost much valuable time.”

“You were so out of touch with Rome that until December they did not even know of your whereabouts,” said Rufio, almost scolding. “There were some who assumed you were dead.”

“I was not dead,” he said. “But in some ways entombed.” He looked around at the richly furnished stateroom, and dismissed it with the wave of a hand. “Egypt is like a gigantic tomb. Everything that stays here long enough becomes mummified. This is a country of dead men surrounded by monuments to death.”

I could stand it no longer. “Am I a mummy?” I cried. “Is Alexandria—the foremost city in the world for learning, beauty, and the art of living—a tomb?”

He laughed. “Alexandria, as everyone knows, is not Egypt. But even it seems remote from everyday life—perhaps because it is so opulent, so civilized.”

He had finished with us. He was ready to go. He was straining at his tether.

That night, in our sleeping chamber, he seemed thoughtful, almost sad that it had come to an end. He sat staring at his goblet, which he had uncharacteristically filled with wine. He had even drunk a cupful, and it seemed to soften his stern features. He toyed with its base, running his fingers over the raised decorations.

“Long ago I told you I avoided wine because it incited strange symptoms in me. Now, after that night on the desert, you know what they are. But tonight I do not care.”

I stood behind him and put my arms around him. “What will you do? When—must you leave?”

“Soon,” he said. “In a few days.”

“A few days? Can you not stay for the birth of our child? It is only a few weeks from now.”

“I cannot wait a few weeks.” He sounded so certain that it was pointless for me to object.

“I see.” So I would be left alone to bear this child. But there was no arguing with Caesar. I tried my best to keep my voice level and betray no tremor of emotion. It would serve no purpose but to annoy him.
But what about Philae?
my mind cried.
What did it mean to you? Anything?
Would it be announced in any way?

“There is one thing more,” he said, still turning the goblet in his hands.

“Yes?” My heart leapt up,

“You should marry little Ptolemy before my departure. You cannot rule alone, and must be nominally married.”

“I am married!” I cried. I could not help myself. “It is already announced that this child—”

He laughed indulgently. “That is in the divine, mystical sense. But the Alexandrians are more jaded and skeptical. They will laugh at such a story. And those we laugh at, we lose fear and respect for. Without a husband, foreign princes will come courting you, and that will be tiresome.”

“For me or for them?”

“For you and for me,” he said. “I am hoping that you would find their attentions tedious, and for myself, I would find them…disturbing.” He stood up and put down the goblet. At last he took me in his arms. “I find I cannot stand the thought of you with another man. This has never happened to me before. I excused Pompeia’s liaison with Clodius, and frankly I wouldn’t care if Calpurnia had been rolling around with Cicero himself the entire time of my absence. But you…no Syrian princes for you. I could not bear it.”

“So I am to wait, preserved, for you—like the mummies you say Egypt is filled with?”

“I will send for you to come to Rome as soon as it is safe.”

“Which may be years!” The awfulness of what I was facing suddenly spread itself out before me. To bind myself to Caesar was indeed to make a mummy of myself, with all living forbidden, and no promise of any recognition as anything but his mistress. “The life you are offering is no life at all!”

“Trust me. In just a little while, things may be different.” In an ordinary man, his tone would have been close to begging. But could Caesar beg?

“How can they be? The laws of Rome are as they are, and your nature is as it is.”

“Trust me,” he said, and this time the tone really was begging. “I have never known another person like you, found my counterpart in a woman. You have my spirit, my daring, my gambler’s nature, my seeking for adventure. Wait and see what I can bring about.”

“Wait and see,” I murmured. “What if nothing happens?”

“If it is humanly possible for me to bring about a future for us and our child, I will,” he promised. “But I must know you will wait, and that you trust me.”

“I have no choice,” I finally said. “My heart wishes me to, even though my head warns me not to.”

“Because you are very young,” he said, “they may be evenly balanced. At my age, it is a wonder that the heart speaks at all.”

In two days we were back in Alexandria. From a distance it looked as perfect as ever, but after we had landed and were being transported in litters through the city, I could see the heaps of rubble and the charred timbers that choked the streets. There would be much to repair. The war had been a costly business—but if that was the price for keeping my throne, so be it.

As we alighted and entered the palace, I was aware of more than just welcoming looks. During the journey my pregnancy had advanced to the stage where it was clearly visible. We would have to make the Amun announcement immediately. Or just make no announcement at all? Caesar was right; such a claim would only cause the Alexandrians merriment. My city was known as a place where lovemaking and pleasure blended the sophistication of the Greeks with the sensual indulgences of the east; they would know well enough where this baby had come from. I blushed to realize that even their imaginations might fall short of the actual acts. Who could believe the old Roman soldier, so austere in all his other physical appetites, would be so inventive and vigorous in his amorous behavior? On the other hand,
inventive
and
vigorous
were the two words that best described his prowess on the military field as well.

Much as I hated to leave our private world on the ship, I was delighted to see Mardian and Olympos at the head of the officers waiting to receive us. And when I reentered my chambers, Charmian and Iras were there.

“Oh, my dear Charmian! My Iras!” I held out my arms and embraced them.

“Your Majesty! Welcome! Look! We have all in readiness! Goods are flowing into Egypt again, now that the war is over. There are new silk hangings for the bed; fresh incense from Arabia; the good Caecuban wine; and roses from Cyrene—both red and white.” I could smell the distinct rose odor, piercingly sweet. Two bunches of them were in large glass vases. “We are so happy you are here,” they said, simply.

“What have you done for Caesar’s quarters?” I asked.

“Made ready a working table,” Charmian said. “Mountains of documents have come in for him.”

I sighed. He would not care about, or notice, the new silks or the roses. Only the documents. “There are undoubtedly documents for me, too,” I said.

“Many less,” they said. Iras pointed to a table that held a little pyramid of them.

Yes, I did not rule the world, but only one country. And on this journey I had seen many of the concerns of that country with my own eyes. The business in Egypt was the same as it had been for the earliest Pharaohs: crops, harvests, taxes, soldiers. It was Caesar’s world that was in flux, not mine.

“He thanks you for your efforts,” I said. I felt tired, and sank down on a chair of citrus wood.

“Your…your…condition…?” They flopped around, searching for words.

“I have had no problems except that now I am growing tired easily. The journey was restful for me,” I said.

“And when is—is—?”

If my own dear ladies were so embarrassed about it, how did the rest of Alexandria regard it? “I am not really sure,” I said. “I must ask Olympos to do the calculations. I think in a month, or perhaps a bit longer. Caesar cannot stay.” I had to say it then, so there would be no mistake about it. But the look on their faces told all. They disapproved. I found myself in the position of having to defend him—to myself and to them.

“There are urgent matters—” I began, but my voice trailed off. It was not convincing. “This is the drawback to loving the master of the world,” I finally said. “One tends not to be as important to him as one would wish.”

And that was the truth of the matter. I was a queen, descended from an old royal house, and my country was the richest one in the world. But he did not need to remind me that when we met, I had been reduced to living in exile in a tent. Without him I would still be there—or dead. He could have turned Egypt into a Roman province after Alexandria had surrendered, like every other country in the Mediterranean after a defeat: Greece, Syria, Judaea, Spain, Carthage. The fact that he had left me on my throne and had even spent precious weeks on our journey up the Nile spoke of his personal feelings for me. More than that I would not get.