The Memoirs of Cleopatra Part 87

Mardian was stroking the turtle's head, and it seemed to enjoy it; at least it stopped struggling. "A tragedy," he agreed. "And now the . . . situation with Octavia."

"Yes. She sits in Athens, surrounded by her bait. Octavian sent her; it could not be her doing." Of that I was sure.

"How do you know that?" Mardian frowned.

"Even if she wished to, he never would have permitted it unless it furthered his own aims. Besides, she has no thoughts, desires, or plans of her own!"

The weak creature was content to be married how and where her brother decreed, to be ordered about like a slave. What good was all her scholarship, then, and her vaunted lofty character?

"Everyone in Rome praises her," said Mardian cautiously. "And they say she is . . . beautiful."

"I've seen her. She isn't," I said. "People say the most ridiculous things! That's because it makes the story better, and the compet.i.tion sharper between us. I and my eastern wiles against the virtuous beauty of Rome." I knew that was how it was perceived, and there was no remedy for it. As I said, people like dramatic stories and elemental conflicts.

"Antony will have to decide," I said. "And I will do nothing to help him make up his mind."

"My dear, if you have not done enough already, then it will never be enough," said Mardian.

I had spoken bravely to Mardian in the daylight, but at night I lay awake and felt much less sure. The truth was that common sense said Antony should return to the fold of Rome. His eastern venture had failed; he ought to put it behind him as a lost cause. He possessed that unusual, chameleonlike quality of fitting in anywhere. In his purple general's cloak and helmet he was pure warrior, in his toga he was a Roman magistrate, in a Greek robe he was a gymnasiarch, in lionskin and tunic he was Hercules, and in vine leaves he was Dionysus, an eastern G.o.d. Unlike me, he could be all things to all people--it was his gift and his charm.

Now he could easily resume the Roman mantle, take the hand of his Roman wife, and sail back to Rome. The east had not answered his dreams; very well, there were others for him elsewhere. Octavian would welcome him back, his errant past forgiven. They would never mention me, as a mutual embarra.s.sment.

The west was sure for Antony. All I could offer was a struggle to build a wide eastern alliance and eventually an equal partnership with Rome. That, and myself.

Yet I wondered about a woman like Octavia. If I had been deserted, my husband publicly marrying someone else, bestowing lands on her and putting her head on coins, I never would want him back--or at least I would never take him back, no matter how much I wanted him. And to chase after him--I would be ashamed even to think of it!

Bending the knee to Octavian entailed great humiliation--even for his "cherished" sister. How much more for his fellow Triumvir?

And as day after day went by, I grew used to the waiting. It became part of me.

Mardian even set himself the challenge of finding literary references to "waiting" and "patience," seeking help from the librarian of the Museion.

"Homer says in the Iliad, Iliad, The fates have given mankind a patient soul,' " he ventured one day. The fates have given mankind a patient soul,' " he ventured one day.

"That is so general as to mean nothing," I said. Indeed it was; plenty of men had no patience at all.

" 'Patience is the best remedy for every trouble,' wrote Plautus," he offered another day.

"Another generality!" I scoffed.

"Here's an obscure one, then," he said. "Archilochos wrote, 'The G.o.ds give us the harsh medicine of endurance.' "

"Why should it be from the G.o.ds?" I felt argumentative. "Sappho understands it better. She says, 'The moon and Pleiades are set. Midnight, and time spins away. I lie in bed, alone.' "

"Ahem," Mardian demurred. "Why do you want to torture yourself by reading Sappho?"

"Poetry consoles me at the same time it inflames me," I said.

"You should know better," he sniffed. "It's poison for the soul!"

Another day he presented a paper from Epaphroditus, who had found a quote from the scriptures of his religion. "He quotes from a scroll called Lamentations, and it says, The Lord is good unto them that wait for him, for the soul that seeketh him.' "

I laughed. "It isn't the Lord I'm waiting for."

"My dear, I give up. Inflame yourself with Sappho--or whomever you like. But it isn't helping!" He looked very stern.

I read poetry only late at night, when Charmian and Iras had retired, when the curtains in my room were gently stirring. The night stretched out before me, and the words from people centuries dead seemed to carry an authority that the words of the living never did. They did console; they whispered; they made me feel thankful that--whatever the pain of it--I was alive, while they, poor wretches, were dead.

Later we will have a long time to lie dead, yet the few years we have now we live badly.

That was what they told me: that was what they warned me of.

It was during the day that I expected to receive the news. That was when ships docked and unloaded, when land me^engers arrived. So late at night, as I half-lay, half-sat, on a couch on my roof terrace, watching the moonlight sliding on the harbor waves, indulging myself in poetry and Arabian candied melons, I barely looked up as one of my lowliest chamber attendants brought me a letter.

"Leave it here," I said, waving my hand toward a mother-of-pearl bowl that I used for unimportant trinkets. I was too involved in the delicious verses of Catullus to stop; they were as high-flavored and (I suspected) as unhealthy as the candies. I was thankful I had learned Latin after all, the better to partake of his agonies and yearnings.

Odi et amo: quare id faciam, forta.s.se requiris. nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

I hate and love.

And if you ask me why, I have no answer, but I discern, can feel, my senses rooted in eternal torture.

How un-Roman! That, in addition to his "inflammatory" ideas, made him even more forbidden.

Only when I grew sated on the excess of emotion--I actually felt wrung out by the time I set him aside--did I idly pick up the letter and open it.

"My dearest and only wife, I am coming to you.--M. A." was all it said.

The plain and simple words were the most eloquent I had ever read, and belittled all the literary raptures I had so admired.

My dearest and only wife, I am coming to you.

Antony himself was already here, and had sent the letter from the harbor below. I had so delayed reading it that he stood on the threshold of my chamber by the time I had finished.

I heard the door being opened, heard footsteps. What now? I thought, annoyed at the intrusion. I wanted to reread the letter, ponder it. I stood up and looked inside, into the darkness of the room.

"Charmian?" I said. No one else would dare to enter at midnight.

There was no answer. Drawing my robe around me, I stepped inside.

Someone was standing there, face hidden by a voluminous hood.

"Who are you?" I demanded. How did he get past the guards? From the size, I knew it was a man.

Still the hooded figure was silent.

"Who are you?" I repeated. If there was no answer this time, I would call the guards.

"Don't you know me?" said Antony's voice, as he pulled back the hood. Swiftly he crossed the floor and caught me up in his arms, holding me tightly.

I could not speak, first because no words would come, and then because he was kissing me so fiercely.

"I will never leave your side again," he was saying, between kisses. "I vow it with all my soul."

I was able to pull my arm free and reach out and touch his face. He was really there; he was not an apparition brought on by the swimming of my senses in dreams and desires.

I took his hand and led him over to the bed, where we sat quietly. I pushed the cloak from his shoulders and let it fail. It had been five years almost to the day since he had been here, in my Alexandrian bed. I had been alone in it a long time.

"Nor will I let you," I whispered. "You have had your chance to escape. Now you must stay forever."

"There is no other reality for me than here," he said.

And I welcomed him back into my heart, my bed, and my life.

lacta alea est: The die is cast. As Caesar had crossed the Rubicon into forbidden territory, now Antony had sailed down the eastern end of the Mediterranean to Egypt, his embraced destination, his future, his fate. The die is cast. As Caesar had crossed the Rubicon into forbidden territory, now Antony had sailed down the eastern end of the Mediterranean to Egypt, his embraced destination, his future, his fate.

Chapter 62.

By morning the word was out not only in the palace but all over Alexandria: Marcus Antonius had taken up residence here. But in what guise had he come? Was he the Roman Triumvir, or the Queen's husband, or the King of Egypt? How were they to treat him? Luckily, Antony himself seemed to have no concerns about it; it was enough for him to be here and let others worry about what to call him or what his official status was.

"How very eastern," I told him that morning as he dismissed the stammering valet with an airy "Call me what you will, so long as it isn't fool." "You know we like to leave things ambiguous."

"Yes, that is why the Romans perceive you as so slippery," he said. He padded over to the window and looked out at the beckoning harbor, the green of the water shading slowly into the blue of the sky. Where they touched, a glorious soft blend of colors was produced. He looked content, a man well pleased with where he was. He raised his arms above his head and stretched. "When my clothes are sent up from the ship, I'll get dressed." He had left everything on board. "In the meantime I suppose I could wear that robe of your father's--if you still have it."

As if I would have ever discarded it, having kept it so long. It was the robe he had worn in his own quarters, and I had memories of it draping him as we played board games or he read quietly. Even so, it was jeweled and had patterned sleeves; a Ptolemy is never unadorned.

As soon as he had it on, he asked for the children. "And there's one I've never even seen," he reminded me.

The twins came running in; Alexander jumped on him and tried climbing up on him, like a monkey, and Selene hugged his knees, her eyes closed.

"Did you bring back lots of the enemy?" asked Alexander. "Are they in cages?"

"Well--not with me," Antony admitted.

"But you did get lots, didn't you?" Alexander said. "What are you going to do with them?"

"I haven't made up my mind yet," Antony said. "Sometimes that is the hardest part."

"Maybe we can eat them!" He shrieked with laughter. "Make a stew!"

"You are a bloodthirsty little devil," Antony said. "Now, who could you have got that from? I don't think they would make a very good stew--they are too lean and stringy." He turned to Selene. "You don't want Parthian stew, do you?"

She shook her head slowly, and made a face. "Taste bad," she said.

"Right you are. I'm sure it would taste very nasty." He looked up as the nurse brought in the baby, propped in the crook of her arm.

Little Ptolemy Philadelphos had hair standing up at full attention on top of his head, and bright, dark eyes. He was just perfecting his grin and practiced it on everyone, but Antony imagined it was just for him.

He looked down at him. "What a child!" There was no hiding the pride in his voice. "But his name--can't we find something more--personal?"

I took the baby; he was six months old now and noticed everything around him. He tugged on my hair with his fat hands. "I tried, but it was no use. Roman names are so unimaginative; you only have about twenty first names, and since they run in families, that really means you have only about five you are allowed to choose from. What were your brothers' names--Lucius and Gaius? So ordinary."

"Well, Ptolemy Philadelphos is anything but ordinary. But it sounds like a monument."

I put him down and watched him start to inch across the polished floor; creeping was a new art with him. "I hope a nickname will present itself," I said. "He has such shiny eyes . . . perhaps something there. ..."

"Or if you must must have a monument, then Monumentum," said Antony, with a laugh. "And he has hair like quills--too bad we can't call him Erinaceus, 'Hedgehog.' " have a monument, then Monumentum," said Antony, with a laugh. "And he has hair like quills--too bad we can't call him Erinaceus, 'Hedgehog.' "

"I can see all the obligatory Antonias and Marcuses stifled your imagination. But I won't allow my son to be called Hedgehog!"

"Perhaps the Alexandrians will name him, as they did Caesarion," he said. "And where is Caesarion?"

"Most likely riding. He has fallen in love with his horse," I said. "It is the age for that."

In the flat reaches beyond the eastern city walls lay the Hippodrome--the horse-racing arena--and the pastures and training grounds connected with the royal stables. I had guessed right in thinking that Caesarion would be there, as I had guessed right in presenting him with a wonderful horse. He had named him Cyllarus, after a horse tamed by a Greek hero, and had almost deserted the palace for the stables ever since.

He was riding briskly along near the fence, his long legs gripping the flanks of the horse firmly, guiding him that way rather than by the bridle. Cyllarus responded, finely in tune, turning this way and that with only a nudge of Caesarion's knee. Then, still not aware of our presence, he leaned forward and, by this shift in his posture, signaled that it was time for speed. The horse immediately broke into a gallop, and Caesarion leaned along his neck, out of the wind, seeming almost part of the animal, absorbing his motion as he ran.

I saw it at the same time as Antony: It was Caesar himself, exactly the way he rode. As he had ridden that last day we were together.. . .

The memory, so sharp it actually hurt inside my chest--the antidote, the sweet rush of pride in seeing his son create him anew. .. .

"Caesarion!" I waved to catch his attention. Then, turning to Antony, I saw the look of astonishment on his face.

"I thought never to behold this again," he said quietly. He seemed shaken. "The shades stir to life once more."

Far down the field, Caesarion slowed Cyllarus by gradually shifting his own balance, then guided him in our direction. He sat up straight now, looking curiously over the horse's ears, watching us. As he approached, the uncanny resemblance to Caesar faded a bit, dissolving in the very youth of Caesarion's face. The deepset eyes were neither wary nor weary, nor were they surrounded by lines. The firm mouth cut across a smooth, untried face.

"Mother," he said, nodding, as he slid off the horse. "Triumvir." He acknowledged Antony. Clearly he did not know how to address him, or even whether to smile at him.

"You are a born cavalryman," said Antony, in genuine admiration.