The Memoirs of Cleopatra (83 page)

He was awake, and staring at me with bright blue eyes. Miracle of miracles, he was unharmed, too.

“Thanks be to Isis,” I murmured, touching his mouth.

Olympos came hurrying in on the heels of the attendant. I was touched; he had obviously been waiting in the next room for however long it had been. He looked dreadful, as if he had been through the ordeal too. “Thanks to all the gods!” he murmured, taking my hand. “I will never ask them for anything again.”

“Now don’t be too hasty,” I said, but it took all my strength to do so. “You are too young yet never to need the help of the gods again.”

“I thought you were going to die,” he said simply.

“I know,” I said. “I heard you.” And saw you cry, too, I remembered.

“If you had, I would have gone personally to Marc Antony and killed him,” he said, and I knew he meant it. Then, embarrassed, he hurried on, “The babies were born a little early; they were small. And a good thing, too, for had they been any bigger, none of you would be here.”

I winced. “Bigger I don’t want to think about,” I said, attempting to laugh. That hurt, too. “Will I ever recover?” I asked. I felt I never would be free of pain again.

“Oh, in a year or two,” he said, lightly, the old Olympus trying to cover up the one that had revealed himself briefly just now, and in the birth room.

In addition to the battering I had taken, I was weak from the loss of blood. When I first saw myself in a mirror, I was astonished at how white I looked. Olympos plied me with red wine, which he swore built up the blood again, along with an infusion of steeped chervil. He also said I should nurse the babies myself instead of employing a wet nurse, as it helped in recovery, and since there were two of them, I would recover twice as fast. And the babies would grow faster, making up for their small size at birth.

I did not need any urging, for I loved holding the babies, and this meant hours when I could do only that. I was still too debilitated to take on arduous public appearances, and I was not anxious to conduct outside business, so it did not interfere with my duties.

They were both, of course, beautiful babies—as any mother always feels. Both of them had light hair, and the boy kept his blue eyes, whereas the girl’s turned a greenish brown. Day after day I watched their faces, their delicate puckered mouths and uncurling fingers, watched them fall asleep in contentment as I held them. Day after day I felt them grow heavier.

What was I to name them? This time there would be no Roman heritage in their names; I refused to include Antony in them—Antony, who had rejected marriage with me as a non-Roman, while rushing into one he considered appropriate as soon as his feet touched Roman soil! Well, now he could do without his children, at least legally. I was eastern, too eastern for him? Then so would my children be. I named the boy Alexander Helios. Alexander after the obvious patron, and Helios after the sun god. First, because Alexander had been associated with the sun god, and his statues often depicted him as resembling Helios; second, because he was born in the year of the solar eclipse; and last, because he was a twin, like Apollo the sun god, and also to remind Vergil and his like that they did not own Apollo, however much Octavian liked to claim him as his patron deity. Perhaps my son would be the Apollo they predicted for their golden age.

And my daughter? Cleopatra Selene. Cleopatra after not only me but the many other Cleopatras in my lineage, going all the way back to the great Alexander, whose sister had been named Cleopatra. And further back even than that, there was a Cleopatra in the
Iliad
. Greek connotations—Greek, not Roman! And Selene, meaning “moon.” Again, for the eclipse, and also for the twin Artemis.

And so I watched my baby Sun and Moon and asked Isis to make them the bringers of the golden age, or the children of destiny we had in our own, older,
genuine
prophecies, as opposed to that trumped-up mockery of Vergil’s!

I was still holding them after a feeding, when a messenger was announced. I thought it of little account, and did not even hand the babies to their nurses, but just gave orders that he should be admitted right away.

I was taken aback when an official Roman courier stepped into the chamber, in full regalia, his breastplate gleaming, the brush on his helmet stiff and thick.

“I bring greetings from Rome, most imperial Majesty,” he said in a booming voice. Or maybe it wasn’t really booming, but only sounded that way after the cloistered life I had been leading in the nursery.

I just stared at him and nodded. “Welcome,” I finally said.

“I bring a letter from Marcus Antonius, Triumvir,” he said, thrusting it out. It was encased in a metal and leather cylinder. Very fine; oh, very fine indeed.

I took it, opened it, and read.

So. I held it in my hand, Antony’s account of Brundisium, his proud recounting of the agreements—agreements, I could see instantly, that increased Octavian’s power at the expense of Antony’s. So he had handed over the Gallic legions! Lost the west entirely, without even a fight! And the offhanded announcement of the wedding, couched in official language, referring to himself almost as if he were another person! And calling Octavian “Caesar”—to me! I was trembling with rage.

The Roman was standing, smiling, waiting for me to utter some bland inanity. One of the babies squirmed in the crook of my elbow.

“I thank you for your speedy voyage to bring me these tidings,” I said. Undoubtedly Antony had ordered the swiftest ship to announce his doings. But he had reckoned without the chance arrival of another messenger first. So it often happens.

“You may tell the Triumvir Marcus Antonius that I have received his news, and that I congratulate him on his marriage. You may also tell him that I have just borne him two children—a son and a daughter.” I spread my arms and held them out for him to see.

The man simply blinked in shock. There was no official protocol for responding to such an announcement. Finally he said, “Have you no—no letter you wish to send? I can wait, as long as you would wish.”

I drew myself up. “No. No letter. Merely the two sentences, which surely you can remember. They are not too taxing.”

The seas would soon be closing for winter; already the waves were rising and storms had started. But just before they did, another ship arrived from Rome, having set sail at the last safe moment. It brought a letter from Antony, and this time I read it in private. It was wild and all but tear-stained. I could picture him sitting up late at night, indulging in wine and memories while he wrote it, then sending it off without rereading it.

It almost made me feel sorry for him—as he meant it to. But what kind of a man was he, that he needed an “excuse” to refuse Octavia, and marry me! He shouldn’t need an excuse, and if he did, a pregnancy was not a proper one for the Triumvir—perhaps for some shepherd or schoolmaster, but not for the lord of half the world! And what did he mean, I had betrayed
him?
He was the one who had chosen Octavian, and Octavia, over me. What a pity he couldn’t trust anyone! How sad! Well, I had told him that, and told him to beware of Octavian! And yet he continued to rescue him. Why didn’t he let the mob put an end to him once and for all?

And as for the children—I didn’t know what I would teach them about Antony. It was much easier for Caesarion, his father being dead, and declared a god. The living Antony was a delicate matter. And anyway, the children were a long way away from being taught anything. First they would have to learn to talk.

During those weeks when we were cut off from the rest of the world, I had many long hours to think—to think, and to recuperate. Gradually I grew thin while the babies grew big, as if a very source of being were transferred from me to them. My strength returned; even my pain disappeared.

“Youth is a marvelous healer,” said Olympos after he pronounced me completely recovered.

“No, I think it was your skill,” I said. “After all, plenty of young people die.” It occurred to me that the two people who know you best in the world are your physician—who knows all the particulars of your body—and your financial advisor, who knows all the secrets of your bank account. Between them, they have the whole picture.

“Luck played a part in it,” he said. “And your basic strength. You are a tough warrior crocodile.”

Antony had called me that, too. How strange. “Antony called me a crocodile as well,” I said. “I don’t think it’s a compliment.”

He frowned, as he always did, at least in passing, when Antony was mentioned. Which was too bad, since I had a mission for him that involved Antony. “The crocodile has many admirable qualities—I meant it that way. It’s very hard to conquer a crocodile, and they can live under conditions that would kill most other animals. An enviable trait,” insisted Olympos.

“Indeed.” I waited a moment to broach the main subject. This was not going to be easy. “Olympos, your knowledge of wounds and healing is remarkable—for a Greek.”

Now his eyebrows shot up. He looked wary, like a gazelle that suspects a lion might be nearby. “For a Greek?”

“Of course the medical training here at the Museion is still foremost in the world,” I said. “You are the heirs of the great Herophilus and his anatomy studies; and the operations for stones and abscesses were great advances in their day. The theories, the theories were ingenious! Praxagoras and his hypothesis about the blood vessels! Dioscorides’ idea about the plague—intriguing! But—”

“But what?” Now he looked truly on guard.

“But those ideas are just theories. I think, now that I have recovered, you should go to Rome to study,” I said.

“I knew it!” He shook his head. “And why, pray tell, should I go to Rome? Other than to spy on Antony?”

I ignored the last question. “Because I prize your talent for healing. But time has marched on; there are new techniques in the world of medicine—”

“Of which you are well apprised, being a physician yourself,” he said with a snort.

“I know that the Romans have learned a great deal about treating wounds and lacerations—they have practical knowledge, not just theories. That’s because they’ve fought so many wars in the past hundred years—they’ve had a lot of soldiers to practice on! Oh, Olympos, don’t be such a snob. Greeks
can
learn some things from Romans.”

“As you have?”

I let that barb pass. “I have heard they know how to operate on eyes to remove cataracts, and that they can sew up wounds so they won’t fester. And that they have invented instruments that clamp blood vessels, and others that hold wounds open so that arrows can be extracted—”

“Of course I know that,” he snapped. “Do you think I don’t keep up?”

“But wouldn’t you like to go and learn about them firsthand? Or is your prejudice against the Romans so strong that it even compromises your work?”

Now he looked embarrassed. “It would take too long—I have duties here—”

“You have some very able assistants and students. And you needn’t be gone longer than half a year. When the seas open again in March, you could go. Stay until autumn. You can learn a lot in six months! And I won’t get into trouble while you’re gone—nothing that your assistant can’t manage.”

“I know you,” he said. “You can get into a lot of trouble in six months.”

“Well, I promise I won’t.”

He looked halfway pleased. Perhaps he really needed a change; and his innate curiosity would enjoy the challenge of a new discipline.

Now that I had his cooperation, it was time for the next part. “And, yes, there is some personal business I’d like—”

“No, I won’t go to Antony. You know I hate the man.”

His flat statement took me by surprise. I did not know what to say—certainly I couldn’t defend Antony to him. After all, there were times when I hated him myself. Finally I said, “I don’t expect you to meet with him. But I want you to take along one of my astrologers—someone Antony has never seen, who will find a way to attach himself to Antony’s entourage.”

Olympos groaned. “So I am to accompany a spy of yours to Rome? You want to put eyes and ears in Antony’s household?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t care about his eyes and ears. What I want to use is his mouth. I want him to advise Antony to get out of Rome.”

“Why? Why should he leave Rome? So he can come back here?”

“No. I don’t expect him to come back here. I don’t want him to come back here.” Not as Octavia’s husband and Octavian’s obedient servant, I thought.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Nevertheless, it’s true. But he should get out of Octavian’s shadow. He cannot even think clearly around him—it’s as if Octavian corrupts and disables his very mind!”

“I told you long ago, he takes on the strongest nature that’s nearest him. That’s why he’s unreliable. I warned you.”

“You were right—he does. And that’s why he must put distance between himself and Octavian.”

“Again, why?”

“I want him to stand clear, on his own!”

“You haven’t answered my question.” Olympos was relentless. “Why should it matter to you?”

He was determined to make me say,
Because I love him. Because I don’t want him to go down to ruin
. But I only said, “Because Antony’s task is to administer the east and conquer the Parthians. If he dallies too long in Rome, he will lose his chance. And that would be bad for all of us in the east.”

Olympos grunted. “And I suppose you want me to write you long reports about Rome and the gossip there,” he said.

“Yes, of course,” I answered. “It has been five years since I left. Many things will have changed. I am curious. Indulge me. After all, I will pay for your journey and lodgings—and I hope you will avail yourself of the best.”

I knew that was irresistible bait for him. He was one of those thrifty people with secret longings to be profligate. Doing it at someone else’s expense should satisfy both needs.

Octavia pregnant! That horrible dream—there must have been truth in it! I felt anger start to course through my veins, anger that was not even rational. I had
known
they were married; I knew what married people did; I was almost angry at myself for being angry.

I put the letter down. So Olympos had arrived, and was putting the time to good use. What more did I want?

And our children had caused Antony awkward moments in Rome? Good. Let Octavian stew on that—let him think on it, just as I was tormented by the dream.

My nature was at least as strong as Octavian’s. May the best man win.

I was keeping myself well, but as for not letting my thoughts be troubled—that was not so easy. I was restless and discontented, unreconciled to the present state of things with no clear view of what I preferred instead. I was envious of Antony—envious because he had everything. He could have as much lovemaking as he liked, and all with the world’s approval—it was even for the greater good of Rome! He had lands to conquer, a campaign to conduct in Parthia.

I should have been happy to be spared all that, I should have rejoiced in the peace my country enjoyed, its prosperity, my healthy children, my own quiet life. I did. But there was that in me that would almost have preferred the problems facing Antony. I did not like sitting still; at heart I was a warrior, too.