The Memoirs of Cleopatra (38 page)

Octavian started coughing, a high-pitched, fretful hacking. It was only then that I realized that his fragile beauty might be the result of illness. He had the transparent look of a consumptive. Hirtius paused until the boy had got control of himself.

Then he continued, “ ‘Yet, as far as I am concerned, had I now the task of championing the Alexandrians and proving them to be neither deceitful nor foolhardy, it would be a case of many words spent to no purpose: indeed, when one gets to know both the breed and its breeding, there can be no doubt whatever that as a race they are extremely prone to treachery.’ ”

“I object!” said Ptolemy shrilly. “Why do you say such things?”

“I believe what Hirtius
meant
to say was—” began Caesar.

“No, let Hirtius speak for himself!” Ptolemy insisted.

Hirtius looked around to be rescued. “It is a well-known fact that the mob of Alexandria is volatile, violent, and fickle,” he said. “Even in peacetime, they riot! Isn’t that true?” He turned to me.

“Yes,” I had to admit. “They are difficult to rule. Ever since they more or less deposed”—how I hated that word!—“Ptolemy the Tenth, they have grown ever more strident. When I was a child they rioted because a Roman had inadvertently killed a cat. When I came to the throne, they had got much worse. They drove me from the throne. By the time Caesar fought them in the Alexandrian War, they had become almost ungovernable. Now they have met their master.”

“In other words,” said Brutus, “Caesar arrived to put down the people, to force something on them they did not wish?”

“You make them sound like heroes,” I said. “These same heroic people are the ones who turned on their benefactor Pompey, and slew him when he came seeking refuge on our shores. They are not noble, merely traitors who disregard all moral laws.”

“It was not the people who killed Pompey,” he insisted, “but a corrupt palace faction.”

“Supported by the people,” I said stubbornly. One would have to have grown up in Alexandria to understand it. This Brutus had all sorts of misguided ideas about things he had never seen.

“And this corrupt faction embraced some of the royal family; one of them is to pay the price by being led a captive in the Triumph, and the other has paid with his life,” said Servilia. As she spoke she moved her head vigorously, and her two enormous pearl earrings swung to and fro.

Caesar’s eye was caught by them, and his voice softened. “I see you still enjoy the treasures of Britain,” he said.

Brutus looked down at his mulberries and fell abruptly silent.

“Is it true you invaded Britain just to satisfy Servilia’s love of pearls?” asked Octavia. Her question was straightforward and seemingly lacking in malice, but it was shocking nonetheless.

“Who started such stupid gossip?” said Caesar. “People will not desist from spreading the most insulting and inane stories about me!”

“I—I did not start it,” said Octavia, her low, pleasing voice trembling.

“Then don’t repeat it!” he barked. “I would never conduct a military campaign to please anyone’s vanity, including my own. My gods! What do you take me for?” He struggled to beat his anger down. “I explored Britain and claimed her for Rome because I was called to do it. For the glory of Rome.”

Brutus opened his mouth to say something, then closed it in a hard, straight line.

A hot gust of wind came in, followed by a rumble in the distance. Hirtius’s papers rattled. Gamely he tried to continue his reading, but a clap of thunder drowned him out. Suddenly the thunder sounded as if it were right here in the garden.

“My friends,” said Caesar, “perhaps we should cease with the recitation and allow you to return home before the storm comes. These summer thunderstorms can be severe.”

Everyone rose hastily. Giving Caesar profuse thanks, they did not linger. One by one they said farewell to me as well—Servilia and Octavia kindly, Brutus and Calpurnia curtly. Octavian said he would be pleased to show me about, or to answer any questions, whenever I wished. I assured him I would send for him later, thanking him. He coughed his way out the door, accompanied by Agrippa.

There remained only Ptolemy, Hirtius, and me. Caesar said, “Dear Hirtius, thank you for your recitation. I will send both you and Ptolemy home in the litter; I myself will see to the Queen’s safe return.”

“But—” began Ptolemy.

“Go with him,” I said. “The storm is going to break any moment.” Even as I spoke, a gigantic clap of thunder boomed out.

We were alone in the room; Calpurnia must have departed upstairs. A blast of wind, carrying loose leaves, flapped the doors against the wall. They hit so hard they chipped some of the deep blue-green fresco, depicting a seaside, behind them. Outside, bright streaks of lightning appeared, stabbing the air and illuminating the garden, with its statuary, in blue light.

I shivered. There was coldness wrapped in the mantle of the hot gushes of air. I had never seen thunderbolts before, even though our Ptolemaic coins all carried the picture of an eagle with thunderbolts in his talons. I was not prepared for the power of them.

Caesar stood next to me, watching.

“Thank you for the dinner,” I said. “It was—”

“Unpleasant,” he finished for me. “Yet it was necessary. Now all of you have seen one another; curiosity has been satisfied.”

“Why did you invite Brutus? He is not of your family.”

“No, in spite of idiotic rumors that he is my son!” He sounded disgusted. “Yet in some ways I feel as if he were…as if, had I a grown son, I would wish him to be like Brutus.”

“Why?” He had seemed so dour, so lacking in any human vivacity.

“He has a purity about him that’s rare. His outside is the same as his inside.”

“His outside is so off-putting that one has no desire to get to know his inside,” I said.

“He can be charming when he wishes,” said Caesar.

“Obviously tonight he did not wish to be,” I said. “And what do you mean, people say he is your son?”

“Long ago Servilia was in love with me,” he said. “And I was very fond of her.”

“So that’s why Brutus disapproves of you.”

“No, it’s more than that. He’s so high-minded he would never allow such a base reason to color his behavior. I think it’s that—that he cannot forgive my pardoning him for joining Pompey’s forces. And he joined Pompey only out of principles having to do with the Republic, because he personally hated Pompey for killing his father.”

“What a mixed-up, complex man!” I said. “I would never wish such a son on you. Pray to all the gods that Caesarion is nothing like Brutus.”

“I do pray, dear Cleopatra, that our son is nothing like anyone who has yet lived,” he said. “I would not have him be a copy of anyone else.”

“Yet you said, in watching him, that he was your very self,” I said. “What did you mean?”

“I am not sure,” he said slowly. “I only know that in seeing him for the first time, I was overcome: a part of myself was sleeping, unawares, while I watched over him. I am afraid—that to have a child is to be a hostage to fate.”

“We are all that.”

“It is easier to bear for ourselves alone than for others.”

I would have answered, but a terrific blast of thunder made it impossible to talk. The house shook. We stood and watched the trees bending outside, their heavy limbs whipping up and down, and heard the deluge of water striking the ground like an army of javelins. I had grown up being told that our climate of Egypt was gentle, and that was one of its gifts, but I had never appreciated what that meant until I saw the fury of this Roman thunderstorm.

Caesar put his arm around me, and I leaned against him silently. I had not realized how weary I was until then; the dinner had been a strain. Now we were alone, but not really alone: Calpurnia was upstairs, doubtless straining her ears to hear us. In her place,
I
would have done so.

At length the rain tapered off, dying in fits and spurts. Parts of the garden were flooded, and the heavy smell of wet earth now swept in through the doors. The thunder rumbled away, trailing lightning from its skirts, and ragged clouds tore across the sky. An almost full moon burst out from its inky confines, and shone with an eerie light over the scattered leaves, soaked benches, and muddy puddles.

“Take a cloak,” he said, “and pull it up over your hair. I wish to show you something.”

A servant brought him one along with mine, and together we arranged them to cover our heads. He took my hand and guided me outside, to the shadow of the Temple of Vesta.

“Look,” he said, pointing down the length of the Forum. It lay in stark black and white, its shadows sharp and deep.

It was almost deserted. The lateness of the hour, and the wildness of the storm, had driven everyone away. Now, devoid of the crowds and noise, it took on the dignity and grandeur it had lacked during the busy afternoon. The temples and covered porticoes, the statues and commemorative columns, bespoke a splendor I had begrudged it earlier.

“This is the Via Sacra,” he said, tapping the pavement beneath our feet. “This is where I shall ride my chariot in the Triumphs, on my way up to the Temple of Capitoline Jupiter. And there”—he pointed down to an area before a covered assembly hall—“is where the viewing stands will be set up for the dignitaries and leading citizens. You will be seated in the front seats, along with the rest of my family.” He seemed most anxious to point out to me the precise spot. “I am going to have silk awnings to protect you all from the sun
—they
will say it’s extravagant—to hell with them—in spite of the largesse that will be distributed, and all the games to entertain them—ungrateful dogs—there’s no pleasing them—”

“Stop!” I said. “You are agitating yourself for no reason.” His hand, which was holding the lantern, was shaking. I feared he was about to suffer an attack of his illness. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course.” He sounded annoyed. “I haven’t been troubled with—with
that
since just before the battle of Thapsus. It sought to prevent me from fighting, but I overcame it.” He paused. “I overcame it by willpower.”

I did not see how that could be, but I kept quiet.

“Thousands of people will be in the processions—the magistrates, the senators, captives, and my troops. And the booty! You won’t believe it! Wagons and wagons of it, mountains of gold and arms and jewels! And the sacrificial oxen—”

“We have all those things in Egypt,” I said. Indeed, it was the Egyptians who had perfected such parades and displays. I had long since grown accustomed to them.

We were walking along the Via Sacra, being careful to avoid the wide puddles everywhere. The moonlight came and went, fast-moving shadows of clouds rolling over the buildings. The Temple of Castor and Pollux, with its tall white columns, looked like a row of unearthly trees, revealed and then eclipsed again by the passing shadows.

“You sound jaded,” he said. “But this will impress even you.” He paused. “I have waited a long time for recognition for my achievement in Gaul.”

“I pray it is all you hope for,” I said.

We passed three men who had likewise ventured out for a walk. None of them glanced at us; none of them thought the two in plain cloaks could be anything but fellow citizens. They were speaking about the storm and something to do with a shopping stall: it was the same conversation one could have heard in any city in any country.

“Come,” said Caesar, steering me over to the right. We passed near the Curia and by a stout building that was built into the Capitoline Hill. I had not noticed it before—although I would never tell Caesar I had come here earlier to see the Forum for myself.

“What is that?” I asked, pointing to it.

“The Tullianum Prison,” he said. “The place where state prisoners are kept.”

“Is—is my sister there?” I could not picture proud Arsinoe in a prison.

“Yes, along with all the others to be displayed in the Triumphs. There’s the Gallic chieftain Vercingetorix, and little Juba, son of the Numidian king, and Ganymedes, Arsinoe’s accomplice.”

“What happens to them—afterwards?”

“They are executed,” he said. “In the little chamber beneath the prison cell.”

“Always?”

“Of course. They led armies against Rome. Now they must pay the price. But they are killed privately. It is not part of the spectacle.” He paused. “It is not sad. What’s sad is their lack of self-respect. If they’d had any, they would have committed suicide rather than end up like this!”

“Surely the child is innocent of his father’s deeds,” I said.

“Oh, Juba will not be killed. He will be brought up in a Roman family.”

“Arsinoe is a woman. Do you execute women, too?”

“Did she lead an army?” He made it sound so simple. “If she fought like a man, she must die like one.”

I had seen my other sister executed by my father’s command; I should accept it. Arsinoe had tried to kill both me and Caesar. In my place she would have had me dispatched without a second thought. Still, defeat and exile were a great punishment in themselves.

“You do not sound very merciful,” I said, “and yet you are known for your clemency.”

“That depends on who I am compared to. But no one spares foreign enemies. Your own countrymen—well, that’s a personal matter. I myself believe that if someone wishes to join me, having previously fought against me, he should be welcomed. I burned the papers of Pompey that I found in his tent; I did not wish to know who had corresponded with him.”

“That is very magnanimous of you,” I said. “But is it not rather foolhardy?”

We were traversing a small street that was completely dark, and I had to take Caesar’s hand, since I did not know the way.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But I believe that any other way leads to tyranny, and provokes such hatred that you cannot survive.”

“But if you pardon your opponents—like Brutus—it seems to me that you must do more, in order to please them and bring them around. Just pardoning them without making any attempt to win them over is purposeless. It achieves nothing.”

“They should be grateful to me!”

“Not unless they like you.” It seemed so obvious to me. If someone we hate does us a favor, we spurn both the person and the favor.

“I would never fawn and pander to them,” he said. “I leave that to Cicero and his like. Cicero wants so badly to be
loved
and
appreciated
, he is like a girl just coming into womanhood who peers in the mirror constantly to check his appearance, and analyzes every remark anyone makes. Feh!”

There was no arguing with him. Perhaps he was right. We stumbled along the dark paved street; where
were
we going?

“The office of Pontifex Maximus—how did you get appointed to it?” I was curious, and it seemed a safe subject.

“I bought the election,” he said. “In Rome everything is for sale.”

Abruptly we swung around a corner, and I saw before me Caesar’s new Forum. The clouds had vanished, and the moonlight shone full and bright on its white perfection.

Even though I had already seen it, in this light it was supremely beautiful, and it took my breath away.

“This is my gift to Rome,” he said. “A new Forum.”

He strode across the half-paved courtyard, keeping hold of my hand. We mounted the steps on the side of the temple, and then he bent to light his lantern.

“And this is my gift to the goddess Venus Genetrix, who founded the Julian clan through my ancestor Aeneas—this temple, which I vowed to build, if she would grant me victory at Pharsalus.”

His voice was hushed in reverence of his own creation. The portico sheltered a number of paintings—Greek, by the looks of them—and there was a suit of antique armor on one of the walls.

The inner recess of the temple was dark and silent, and it had the smell of new stone, a dusty, sharp smell. It echoed with our movements, and it
felt
cavernous, although I was not sure how I sensed that, since I could see nothing.

Caesar swung the lantern over his head, illuminating a little circle around us. Still the corners and the far end were invisible to me. He walked as silently as a priest to the back. Looming ahead I saw three statues on pedestals—large statues.

“Here is the goddess,” he said, holding up the lantern to the face of the middle one. She had an expression of supreme contentment, with a mysterious smile, and her marble breast was laden with pearls.

“Arcesilaus of Greece carved her,” he said.

“So you have indeed honored her,” I said. “He is among the greatest of the living sculptors.”

He swung the lantern to the right, lighting another statue, this one of himself. Then he said, “And this is my gift to you,” and moved the lantern to the left, to the remaining statue.

She leapt out of the darkness. She was myself.

“Arcesilaus wants only to see you in person in order to refine the details,” said Caesar.

“What have you done?” My voice was trembling. I was stunned.

“I have ordered a statue of you, in the robes of Venus, to put in the temple,” he said simply.

“In your family temple,” I said. “What can you be thinking of?”

“I wanted to.”

“What are you trying to say?” I kept staring at the huge statue; myself wearing the robes of a goddess and flanking his protective goddess and himself. “What will people think? What will Calpurnia think?”

“Aren’t you pleased?” He sounded disappointed, like a child. “The affront to public opinion is part of the gift. Anyone can make gestures that earn him credit with the masses, and offer them up to his friends. But to risk displeasure—that’s a gift of a higher order.”

“What do these statues say?” I asked. “What do you mean them to say?”

“What would they mean to you, if you saw them as an ordinary citizen?”

“They would mean—that you are descended from Venus, that your house is semidivine, and that I, in my incarnation of Venus and Isis, am your consort. What else could I think?”

“Just so,” he said. “That is exactly what I mean.” He stood and stared at them. “I felt led to do it. I know not what repercussions there will be, but I could not disobey. Now do you believe I love you?”

“Yes.” Indeed I did. But there was more than love at work here. It seemed mad to court such public disapproval.

“I will dedicate the temple in between Triumphs,” he said. “There will be games and banquets.”

“Yes.” I could think of nothing more to say.

“We must be bold,” he said. “We must be who we are, and not shrink from it.”

“Do you believe your victories have earned you the right to do as you please?” I asked. “Is that why you do not hold back?”

“I only know I must follow my own instinct,” he said. “It has never failed me yet. My goddess of Fortune leads me on; all she asks is that I grasp eagerly what she offers.”

“This was not offered by Fortune, but conceived and built by you. You did not stumble on this temple; you created it.”

“I created the victories in Gaul, in Alexandria, in Pharsalus, in Africa, as well. Fortune offers you opportunities to create; she does not hand you presents.”

I could not answer. There was no answer, or none that would satisfy him. He was bent on this course, as he had been bent on crossing the Rubicon and marching into Italy. But whereas others had given him reason for those actions, in this case no one but he was involved.

“They will blame me,” I finally said. “They will say I made you do it.”

“I care not what they say.”

“Yes, you do. You cannot be that lofty. You are not a god, to disregard the opinions of men.”

“To regard them overmuch is to be less than a man, to cower and grovel and—”

“You are describing a beast, not a man. There
is
a middle ground between arrogance and prostration.”

He set the lantern down on the shining marble floor, plunging the upper part of the statues into darkness. He took my shoulders gently. “Show me that middle ground,” he said. “You tread it so well; but then you have had many more years of practice than I. You were born royal, born to rule, recognized as a goddess from your childhood on. So you mix that element with the human so easily.”

“Just be Caesar,” I said. “That is enough.” Then I added, “And do not wound enemies you do not have the heart to kill.”

He stood silently for what seemed a long time. I could hear water dripping off the pediments of the temple outside, splashing onto the pavement: the aftermath of the storm.

He bent down and kissed me, tightening his arms around me. “I would conduct a worship of Venus here,” he said softly.

Short shafts of moonlight were lying in bands at the entrance to the temple, and I knew we were alone. The goddess was looking down at us, as well as the idols of ourselves, waiting to see what we would do.

“When the dedication of the temple takes place, we would have already made offering to it,” he said. His arms tightened around me, and I felt myself longing for him. The enforced polite distance between us during the dinner had sharpened the ache for closeness.

But there had been too much talk of enemies, of executions, of fate; there had been too much of the company of Brutus, Calpurnia, and Octavian. It was not a promising night to indulge in the pleasures of Venus.

“Those who worship Venus must come to her wholeheartedly,” I finally said, pulling back from him a bit. “My mind is clouded with all that has passed this night before we entered her temple.”