The Memoirs of Cleopatra Part 11

It was then, Isis, that I knew I trusted you. It is only when our fate hangs in the balance, when our very life depends on something, that we see whether or not we trust that the rope to which we are clinging will support us. If we do not, then we will not let go of the ledge and swing on it with our full weight.

I trusted you, and you made good that trust, Isis. All hail to thee!

It was a simple enough matter to find a willing, brave man to ferry me to Alexandria. He was already at hand--Apollodoros, a merchant of Sicily who had supplied us with rugs and tents. But as to what I might be called on to do once I was there--ah, that was a different thing. It called for an expertise I was entirely lacking.

Caesar had only one weakness, indeed, only one aspect that seemed human in the midst of all his superhuman attributes. The G.o.ds are kind: They always leave some gap in us through which we can approach one another as equals. Caesar was partial to love affairs--or, to be more painfully honest, to s.e.x affairs.

The G.o.ds can also be cruel, for this was the one area where I could not hope to interest him. Had it been horsemanship--Caesar was reputed to be able to ride at a full gallop with his hands behind his back--I could have won his admiration. Had it been languages, I could have stunned him with my knowledge of eight--whereas he had only two, Greek and Latin, at his command. Had it been riches, my personal fortune and the palace treasures would have left him speechless. Had it been ancestry, I came from the oldest royal house in the world, whereas he was of ancient patrician, but still citizen, lineage.

But love! s.e.x! He had been with men and women of all ages and types, and had acquired an expertise that marked him out even among his peers. Whereas I--I was a virgin, and knew nothing of the refinements or even the fundamentals of lovemaking, beyond what I had read in poetry. My closest friend was a eunuch! I felt helpless at the thought of facing Caesar.

And then the question: Would I even be willing to give myself to him? No one had ever touched me in an intimate way. Could I allow a stranger to do so?

I reminded myself of what was at stake: Alexandria, and Egypt. I pictured the Nile flowing in its flat green ribbon past the palm-lined banks. The granite obelisks reaching toward the sun. The bright, shifting sands under the aching blue sky. The dark, seated statues of ancient Pharaohs. Waiting. Yes. For Egypt I could do anything. Even give myself to Caesar.

I shook my head. Then that was decided. Now I must prepare myself. Prepare myself as I always did for any venture. I almost said "prepare my body," but I knew, instinctively, that in this case it was the mind that needed to be prepared.

It was twilight, and it had been three days since the appearance of Caesar's messenger. There was no time to waste. I sent for Olympos.

When he arrived, I invited him to sit on the cushions and share a supper with me. Thanks to Apollodoros, the royal tent was furnished beyond the usual Spartan camp bed, folding table, and brazier. I had many ha.s.socks covered in embroidery or tooled leather, brightly woven wool carpets, and curtains shot through with silver threads, which divided the areas of living and privacy. Overhead was suspended a fringed movable canopy that served both to cool us and to shoo away insects.

We lounged on the cushions. We were served on bra.s.s platters from Damascus. Iras pa.s.sed us baskets of plump, juicy figs and sweet dates, followed by the puffy round bread of Ashkelon. We sipped wine, and I waited until Olympos had eaten his first platterful before speaking of the matter at hand. I knew that men are always most approachable after their hunger has been appeased.

"Excellent figs," said Olympos, holding one up and inspecting it.

"I remembered how partial you were to figs," I said.

He c.o.c.ked one eyebrow. "Then you must have a favor to ask me!"

"It is impossible to fool you, Olympos," I said, using one of my foolproof flatteries. In my experience, there are only two things no one will admit to: having no sense of humor, and being susceptible to flattery. "Well, the truth is I need your medical advice. You are my personal physician, are you not?"

"Yes, and honored to be so." He waited.

"If I became Caesar's lover," I said calmly, "what would that mean, medically, I mean?"

He almost spat out the fig he was so contentedly chewing. I was startled; Olympos was usually impossible to shock or even ruffle. "It would--it would mean you would bear him a b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

"But why? His other mistresses did not. Servilia and Mucia and Postumia and Loilia. And his current wife, Calpurnia, has no children. In fact, none of his wives had children but his first. Perhaps he's incapable of fathering them."

"Or has been careful not to, since all those women were married." He shook his head. "Do you mean to go to the bed of that old libertine? The thought is repulsive!" He looked as if he were my guardian uncle, and ready to punish me.

"Why? If he were that repulsive, he would find himself alone in his bed, whidh, from what I hear, does not happen!"

"Power makes even the unattractive attractive." He looked most severe.

"Women went to his bed before he had power," I insisted.

"He's old!"

"He's fifty-two."

"That's old!"

"He can swim a mile in his armor. That's not old. Not many young men can do that. Can you?"

"No," he admitted reluctantly. "So you're determined to do this?"

"I am prepared to do it if necessary. There is a difference."

He sat pouting, almost as if he were a jealous lover.

"I need your advice. I have no desire to conceive a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I have heard there are herbs one can take . . . medicines. . . ."

"Yes," he muttered. "From Cyrene, there's the silphion plant to make Cyrenaic juice. And for emergencies, though it isn't as effective, the pennyroyal, which grows everywhere. I suppose you want me to get you some!"

"Yes, but more than that, I want you to get me something else. We have an army here, and wherever there are armies, there are prost.i.tutes. I wish to speak to the most accomplished of the prost.i.tutes, the queen of the prost.i.tutes, as it were."

"One queen to another?" He could barely get the words out.

"Yes. There are things I need to know."

"Well, then," he finally said, "I think I know exactly the one you seek."

"Why, Olympos," I said, "it sounds as if you have sought her already and can give her a personal recommendation!"

He glared at me. "I will send her to you this very night."

"Caesar will be eternally grateful," I said, lightly.

Olympos grunted. He was dangerously near to having no sense of humor at that moment.

The oil lamps were guttering low when there was a stirring at the door of the tent. I had given up expecting any visitor, and had put on my bedclothes. By the poor light I had been reading Caesar's Commentaries Commentaries, hoping to gain an insight into his mind. But it was written in a very impersonal style, and Caesar even called himself by name, as if he were a bystander. Was he really this self-contained? It boded ill for my venture.

Iras poked her head around the curtain. "Your Majesty, a woman is here for you. She says her name is Jehosheba."

It was obvious to me who Jehosheba was. "Show her in," I said, sitting up, and pulling on a robe. I was barely covered when Jehosheba, majestic in her calling, stepped into my quarters.

First of all, she was beautiful, like a G.o.ddess of abundance. Everything about her was more so: She seemed to have twice as much hair as a normal woman, with color that was twice as rich and deep, and curls that were twice as strong and shiny. Her face and its features were exquisite, her teeth glistened like pearls, and were perfectly matched. As to her body--I could tell, by the way the taut skin moved on her well-molded arms, that it was perfect, too.

"Thank you for coming," I said. "I like to behold fine works of nature." And indeed, that was what she seemed to be.

"And I have longed to behold you close-up," she said, with winning simplicity.

Winning simplicity, I thought. Mark that down. Remember that.

"I am in need of your help," I said. "You have had much training in that in which I am but a novice." I paused. "I mean, the art of making love to a man."

"I am pleased that you recognize that it is an art," she said. "Just because anyone may indulge in it does not mean that anyone knows how to. Everyone knows how to walk, but only a few are pleasing to watch while walking."

"Tell me," I said. "Tell me everything."

I cannot recount all she said. Much of it was common sense, of course. Do not take off your clothes in a cold room. Do not allow interruptions. Do not speak of any other matters. Do not, under any circ.u.mstances, speak of other women. And never, never ask, Do you love me? Do you love me? Second worst is, Second worst is, Will you come to me again? Will you come to me again? Only a fool says those things. Only a fool says those things.

"Each man has a dream image of himself and a woman, and it is your job to answer that dream. Inasmuch as you do, you will satisfy him," she said. "The challenge is that it is not readily apparent which man has which image in his mind. He may not even know himself. It takes a genius to discover it. All great courtesans are geniuses that way. They pull out what is deepest in the other person and give it a face and form. Such is magic. Forget potions and perfumes. The spellbinding comes in summoning forth this deepest desire and dream, and making it live. And in becoming this, you will find yourself changed as well, and you may come to love him. For there is a possibility he may answer your own deepest secret dream. Always that possibility."

"Has this ever happened to you?" I asked this creature of inspiring love.

"No," she admitted. "But there is always the next time!" She threw back her head and laughed, a great, hungry laugh. Even in that, she was beguiling. She indicated my trunks. "Let me see your gowns," she said. "They are your tools!"

After she left, I felt more lost than ever. Before, I had not known what I did not know, imagining it a simple matter of a.s.sembly, like building a chair or cooking a stew. Now I knew it was much more than that, and something that was unteachable. I would have to face Caesar with neither knowledge nor experience in this realm, and by the time I acquired any, it would be too late. I felt like a human sacrifice.

Chapter 12.

I took special care in selecting the rug. I knew that, as a connoisseur of fine furnishings, Caesar must not disdain my gift. It also allowed me to distract myself by comparing the scarlet thread of Cappadocia to that of Arabia, and other such weighty questions. I took an entire day to decide between my two final choices, which served the purpose of postponing my meeting with Caesar a little longer. But the rug was finally lying in its canvas bag at my feet, and I was sitting forlornly in the fishing boat that Apollodoros was rowing-- ah! all too competently--a safe distance from the sh.o.r.e, westward to Alexandria.

I could see the dim glow of the enemy campfires, see the smoke drifting inland. But we soon pa.s.sed them by, and the sands were empty. He raised the sail. Then, much too soon, the green of the Delta started. We were coming closer.

I did not see the Lighthouse. Long before we came in sight of it, I had crawled into the rug and Apollodoros had fastened it around me. I was imprisoned in the dark, faintly sweet-smelling, threaded prison, and I could feel every shudder and thump as the boat bounced over the waves. I felt us shake as we pa.s.sed a very rough spot, and I guessed that was the entrance of the harbor, where the waves dashed against the base of the Lighthouse even in good weather. As we bobbed and bucked, and I began to feel sick, I couldn't help a faint smile; all that effort in selecting the rug, and I might end by ruining it!

Now, that would impress Caesar, I told myself. How inviting, how alluring! I bit my lip and willed myself to think of flat horizons. Then, just when I thought I could not stand it another minute, the pitching stopped. We had entered calmer waters. In a m.u.f.fled way, I began to hear voices. There were other boats nearby.

Of course there would be. The palace still had to be supplied with food, linen, and firewood. Surely one more boat would not be noticed.

I heard Apollodoros shouting good-natured remarks to the other boats. The water under the boat was quiescent now, and we glided along. Soon there was a gentle b.u.mp, wood against wood. Then I felt the boat bounce and ride higher in the water as Apollodoros stepped out. He was pulling it along a ca.n.a.l, most likely the main one that led south to the lake and north into the palace area.

What was the hour? It must still be daylight, the normal hour for commercial vessels to be out, but I hoped it was near sunset. The later I got to Caesar's quarters, the more likely he might be alone.

We glided along the waterway and then came to an abrupt stop. This must be the entrance to the palace grounds. I heard, m.u.f.fled and indistinct, the voices of the guards and of Apollodoros. What was he saying? O Isis, you must have given him the words, because next I heard the sound of the iron grate being lifted so we could float past. Apollodoros gave a cheery call of thanks.

I felt us being tied up. Then nothing. No movement, no voices. I felt as if I were strangling. The tightly rolled rug prevented me from filling my lungs with air, and the lack of movement was disorienting.

I must have either gone to sleep or become unconscious, because I have no memory of what happened until I was jolted awake. The rug was being carried. But was it by Apollodoros, or someone else? I tried to lie so naturally that nothing--except my weight--might betray my presence. I had told Apollodoros to explain the weight by saying there were gold goblets inside as a gift to Caesar.

I lay as straight as I could, hoping that I did not make any suspicious b.u.mps. Yet I mustn't be so rigid that the rug looked as if it held a rod inside; I had to drape as if I had no backbone.

My neck was about to be snapped, and with each footstep my head thumped against the inside of the roll. That, added to the lack of air, began to deprive me of my senses. I saw little shooting stars before my eyes at each jolt.

Now we were stopped again. I heard low voices, then louder ones arguing. Then the creak of a door.

I stiffened; I could not help myself. I heard more voices. Then I felt the rug being placed on the floor, and a tug as the bindings were cut away. Suddenly there was a yank, and the entire rug shot out from around me, propelling me out and onto the slippery onyx floor. I slid several feet before I could free my hands to stop myself. As I looked up, I saw two lean and muscular legs, their feet encased in Roman military boots, right before me.

I sat up, my eyes following quickly up past the leather strips of the general's uniform and then over the cuira.s.s, and then I was looking directly into his face: Caesar's face.

I recognized it from his busts and his portraits. The features were the same. But what none of them had captured was the reserved, deadly power of the man.

"Greetings," he said, and his voice was quiet, almost a whisper. But not the sort of whisper that is afraid of being overheard; it is the whisper of one who knows others will strain to catch his every word, and he need not deign to raise his voice to conversational level.

Still, I caught the shadow of surprise crossing his face; he was unsuccessful at hiding it entirely.

He reached down to take my hand and pull me up. I was struck with his utter a.s.surance; how easily I could have slashed at him with a knife. Instead I merely rose and found myself facing him.

I forgot that I had been frightened, so puzzled was I by this man and by my surroundings. The hours inside the rug had left me dazed and unsteady on my feet. It was dark outside. Oil lamps had been lit in the room. Where had the time gone? How long had we waited in Alexandria? Caesar seemed to be alone. Could this be possible?

"A gift from the Queen of Egypt," Apollodoros was saying, gesturing to the unfurled rug. Caesar stepped on it. "But it is not Egyptian," he said. "I am the Egyptian," I said.

He was staring at me. He looked as if he knew well how to smile, but was deliberately withholding it. "You are not Egyptian either," he finally said, with virtually no expression. It was impossible to tell what he thought. Yet his lack of animation was not cold, but strangely teasing and luring.

"My ancestry, as Caesar well knows, is Macedonian, but as Queen of Egypt I have taken the spirit of Egypt for my own."

"Is that so?" Caesar walked around me as though I were a tree, rooted and growing in his--my--chamber. For I now found myself as an intruder in my very own apartments.

"Do you like the tortoisesh.e.l.l doors in this chamber?" I asked, more boldly than I felt. "I was always most fond of them. Are you my guest, or am I yours?"

Now he laughed, but his face still held that peculiar reserve of power and watchfulness. "We are both one another's. You will have to educate me about these things. I am merely a Roman barbarian." He sat, selecting a hard-backed chair.

I chose not to answer that. "I am here, as you requested." I waited. He raised one eyebrow. "In good time, too. I am impressed. Most impressed." He nodded.

"I was told you respected speed." "Above almost all other things." "And what are the other things you respect?"

"Fortune, and the courage to grasp it." He leaned back and crossed his arms. They were brown, lean, and sinewy.

"I have heard you are a gambler. That you cried, 'Let the dice fly high!' as you crossed the Rubicon."

"You have heard much," he said.

"Your boldness was rewarded," I continued. The truth was, I had not heard much, and had almost come to the end of my knowledge of him. "As you hope yours will be," he said. "Yes."

Now, at long last, he almost smiled. "Boldness is its own reward. It belongs to only a select few."

It was as if I were hearing my own thoughts miraculously voiced aloud by another. "No, it brings brings rewards. For many rewards are grasped only by the bold," I answered. rewards. For many rewards are grasped only by the bold," I answered.

"Enough words," he said, and waved for Apollodoros to depart.

He bowed and withdrew. Then Caesar turned to me.

Now was the moment. He was going to reach out and take me, just as he took Gaul and Rome. I braced myself. I was ready.

"Why did you send supplies to Pompey?" he suddenly asked.

I had had my eyes downcast, waiting. Now I looked up to see him watching me, well aware of what I had been expecting, but not interested in pursuing it. He even looked disgusted, or possibly only amused. It was impossible to tell with him.

"I had to," I said. "Magnus Pompey had been my father the King's patron."