The Memoirs of Cleopatra Part 88

Now Caesarion smiled. "Do you think so?" He tried not to look too pleased.

"Indeed. If you were three or four years older, I would speak to General t.i.tius or Plancus about you. How old are you--fourteen?" He knew very well the boy was only twelve, but he knew equally well what twelve-year-old boys like to hear.

"No, I am--I will be twelve next month." He drew himself up.

"Ah," said Antony. "You have long outgrown the lizard. Remember him?"

"Remember him? He only died last year!" More and more of the boy was peeking out.

"We've brought a raven that talks," said Antony. "But I don't always like what he says."

"Why?"

"It's either nonsense or insulting."

Caesarion giggled. Then a silence descended, a silence that grew quickly.

Sensing the moment, and galloping into it as he dashed into the field, Antony took my hand. "Your mother was good enough to marry me, although I am just an ordinary man--not royal, nor G.o.dlike like Caesar. But I have long memories of him, going back years before he ever came to Egypt, and perhaps I can tell you whatever you wish to know about him. I know things about him even your mother doesn't! And I'll teach you what he taught me about soldiering, in the forests of Gaul and on the field of Pharsalus. I think he'd like that. In fact, that's the only reason I married the Queen--to come back to you, and Alexandria." He turned to me with a laugh.

"Yes, that's probably trye," I said. "That, and wanting Egyptian s.h.i.+ps."

Caesarion smiled. "I am happy to have you back. I have missed you," he said quietly.

Yes, that had been part of the heartache for me--knowing Caesarion had become attached to him, only to lose him.

"And I have missed you," said Antony. "I have a son near your age--oh, not quite so old!--only ten ten or so. Just as you are 'little Caesar,' he's little Antony'--Antyllus. Perhaps he'll visit sometime, and you two can gang up on me." or so. Just as you are 'little Caesar,' he's little Antony'--Antyllus. Perhaps he'll visit sometime, and you two can gang up on me."

Antyllus was his son by Fulvia, and until that moment he had not spoken of him to me. He made it easy for me to forget that there were people he cared about still in Rome, and whom he had little likelihood of seeing now. I had been so wrapped up in my rivalry with Octavian and Octavia that I had overlooked the rest of his ties and family there. No wonder he wanted to return for a visit.

But he mustn't--no, he mustn't!

"Why, we shall have to invite him," I said quickly. "Yes, let him come to us in Alexandria!"

We were lounging on couches in our private dining room--exactly nine of us for the nine places. Protocol was ignored, joyously. All three children were crowded together on one couch, where they could spill and kick each other; Antony and I faced each other across the couches we shared with Iras, Charmian, Mardian, and Olympos. Mardian discreetly took the middle place between Antony and Olympos, his ample proportions pus.h.i.+ng them apart.

This was my family--these were the people who would give their lives for me, and I for them. With all their faults, weaknesses, shortcomings, they still were my only armor and refuge against the ills that fate could harbor.

Olympos was observing Antony's hand, watching how he used it in eating--did he bend it easily? Did it function well? The G.o.ds help him if he would do something so direct as to ask!

"You did a good job, Olympos," I said, startling him. "The Triumvir's hand has mended nicely."

Olympos scowled at me. Only in families are we allowed to embarra.s.s one another by reading each other's thoughts--and revealing them. "So I can see for myself," he said.

"You saved my hand, you miracle worker!" said Antony. He waved it about, not bothering to put down the bread he was holding. "Yes, it was about to fall off!" he told a wide-eyed Alexander. "So Olympos put a magic drain in it, and all the poison ran out."

"Oh, really really," said Caesarion.

"No, that's true," I said. "It was a device from ancient medicine that Olympos rediscovered."

"I learned a great deal about wounds from treating your battered army," Olympos admitted. "I got more practice there than many physicians do in a lifetime. I wish--it might be interesting to--" He quickly stopped himself, and began to nibble hungrily on a crisp piece of honeyed lamb.

"To do what?" I was curious to know what had caught his interest.

"To study a little further in Rome," he said. "That capital of the world of war wounds."

"Why, Olympos, you insisted that Rome had nothing to teach Greece in medicine," I reminded him. I had had such a time in persuading him--if that is the word--to go to Rome.

"Wounds aren't medicine," he said stubbornly. "The treatment is different. Greeks study disease; war wounds are accidents."

"Well, why don't you go to Rome?" said Antony quickly. "We promise not to get ill while you are gone. Or go to war."

Olympos shrugged. "Oh, it was just a thought. I am not an army surgeon. Here in Alexandria, our emergencies are of a different sort. It was a foolish idea," he insisted.

"I think you should go to Rome," said Caesarion in a loud, clear voice. "And take me with you."

I turned to look at him, reclining on his elbow, his plain tunic making him look like any youth in the land. "What?" I said.

"I want to go to Rome," he said. "I want to see it. I've been studying Latin for three years now. My father was Roman, and you keep talking about my legacy from him, which Octavian has stolen, but I've never seen it. I can't even picture it--or Rome, or Romans!"

"You've certainly seen plenty of Romans," said Olympos, jumping into the breach. "They are all over the world. You can't avoid them." He put down his cup and looked sternly at the boy. "So there's no reason to go to Rome, just to see Romans."

"I didn't say I wanted to see Romans, Romans, I said I wanted to see I said I wanted to see Rome," Rome," said Caesarion with that same quiet, stubborn force his father had displayed in conversation. O Isis, how like him he was! "I want to see the Forum; I want to see the Senate house; I want to see the Tiber, and yes--I want to see the Temple of the Divine Julius! I want to see my father's temple!" His voice was rising, becoming more whiny and childlike. "I do! I do! It isn't fair that I can't!" He turned to me. "How can you expect me to care about it, or my inheritance, if I've never seen it? I can't ransack your mind for your memories; I have to make my own. Nothing is precious if you haven't seen it for yourself!" said Caesarion with that same quiet, stubborn force his father had displayed in conversation. O Isis, how like him he was! "I want to see the Forum; I want to see the Senate house; I want to see the Tiber, and yes--I want to see the Temple of the Divine Julius! I want to see my father's temple!" His voice was rising, becoming more whiny and childlike. "I do! I do! It isn't fair that I can't!" He turned to me. "How can you expect me to care about it, or my inheritance, if I've never seen it? I can't ransack your mind for your memories; I have to make my own. Nothing is precious if you haven't seen it for yourself!"

"Now that is a point for philosophers to debate," said Mardian soothingly. "They say that which is unseen can be more real than--"

"That's a lie," said Caesarion coldly. "And don't change the subject." He dismissed the eunuch imperiously. Where had the child vanished? "Sooner or later I must go. Why not now?"

"Why must you go, sooner or later?" I asked.

"Because if I am to claim my Roman half, it cannot be as a stranger to myself--or to them."

Go to Rome! I felt betrayed; he wanted to go to Rome, to that nest of enemies, which had never been anything but grief to me. But, although he seemed so entirely mine, so completely Ptolemaic, I knew that he spoke the trut truth--half his blood was theirs theirs. My own child, part foreign.

"Yes, I can see that," I said slowly. "But why now?"

"Why wait longer? I want to see it now. And besides, no one notices a child; no one will know I am there. I want to see them, I do not want them to see me. Let Olympos take me with him. Olympos can pa.s.s as an ordinary man, and I can be his a.s.sistant. We will be invisible."

"You cannot go without a guard," I said. "Don't you understand what a public figure you are? If someone--"

"The boy is right," said Antony suddenly. "He would be safer traveling as n.o.body without a guard than as Caesarion with one."

Antony! Antony was siding with them! "It is too dangerous," I said. "I cannot send him away like that--"

"There comes a time when a boy--when a young man--has to leave his mother's side," said Antony. "He comes of age on that day--on the day he first desires it and acts upon it. It comes earlier for some than for others."

It was too early. I shook my head. It was asking too much.

"I will guard him with my life," said Olympos. "And I think it would be good for both of us. We would both learn much--to help us in our life's work."

So now he was willing to go! Would to the G.o.ds he had never mentioned it in the first place! Yet Caesarion would have found another opportunity, and perhaps a worse one. . . .

"Let me go!" Caesarion was pleading. "I want to go. ..."

"So," I said to Antony, late that night when we were alone, "you will send my child in your place!"

He shook his head. "No. The boy wishes to go."

"And so do you!"

"I do not deny it," he said. "There are political reasons for going, as well as--well, Rome is home. I have been away for--"

"Not as long as Caesar was, and he returned in power."

Antony sank down on one of the cus.h.i.+oned benches in the chamber. The night seemed to be growing hotter, and two servants were standing by with ostrich-feather fans, moving them up and down slowly. They appeared not to be listening, but I knew they were. I dismissed them. Now the hot air settled on us like a blanket.

Antony looked up at me, his expression not that of a husband or a lover, but of an advisor. "Some say--and I cannot wholly deny it--that the reason Caesar was slain was that he was out of touch with Rome, and what Romans were thinking. That his long absence made him a foreigner to them--that otherwise he would have been able to detect the current of dissatisfaction swirling all around him--"

"Of course he was aware of it!" I remembered the anguish it had caused him; that was one of the tortures of intelligence.

"If he had truly understood, he would have known the people would not tolerate his abandoning them yet again for three years in Parthia, and ruling from a distance. They had had enough of the faraway . . . king."

I had to think for a moment. What he said had weight to it. But what was the remedy? "I am afraid to let Caesarion go," I finally said. Was I afraid he would never come back, be swept into the vortex of Rome?

"He needs to see it for himself," said Antony. "Only that way will its power over his imagination be loosened."

As I lay sleepless that night, staring up at the lights playing across the ceiling from the flickering oil lamp--its stores almost burnt out--I kept thinking about Rome. Antony still had many partisans there, many senators who supported him, many of the old Republicans and aristocracy. His inheritance--a grandfather who was Consul and a famous orator, a father who was the first Roman to be given an unlimited military command, a mother from the revered Julian clan--still shone bright in the Roman panoply. But for how long? Things unseen diminish in memory's strength, and Octavian was there, ever before them, to help obliterate Antony's image. The longer it went on, the more complete the process would be.

Yet he could not go there, not now--not after the Parthian humiliation, and his sending Octavia away. Everything I had said against it to Antony was true. But it was also true that his power was eroding in the west, and that was dangerous.

Lepidus gone . . . s.e.xtus beaten . . . Octavia dismissed ... all the bridges and brakes between Antony and Octavian were down. They were already at war. When would Antony realize it?

Because I am above all a realist, and I face what is, not what should be, might be, could be, I knew I must let Caesarion go with Olympos. When beaten, one should give in gracefully, and make the most of whatever opportunities remain to be salvaged in the situation. Caesarion would go to Rome; very well, I must prepare him.

"It is not on the sea," I said.

"I know that," he said proudly. "I have studied maps of it."

"What that means is that there are no sea breezes there, and in summer it will be very hot--much hotter than Alexandria. Besides that, the buildings are low and made of brick, the streets narrow and winding--it feels very dark and cramped."

"But there are gardens--"

"Yes, in the old villa that Caesar had across the Tiber, where you lived as a baby. They are public now, and give the Romans a chance to gasp some fresh air."

The orderly, tranquil gardens--were they now filled with foul-breathed, sweating crowds?

"I will visit them, and visit all the places where you walked," he said solemnly. This was a true pilgrimage for him.

"You can see me in Rome," I told him. "Go to the Temple of Venus Genetrix--the family temple of the Julians--it's in the new Forum. There's a statue of me inside--your father put it there and caused a great scandal at the time."

And he made love to me in the empty temple, in the shadows of the statues, I almost added. But he was too young for that. I almost blushed to remember it ijiyself. How young I had been at the time, how shocked, how hesitant! But Caesar had always done what he pleased, where he pleased.

Had his son inherited that? I didn't think so.

"Be careful," I said. "Keep your eyes wide open, and see everything. And then return."

Return home, I wanted to say. But eventually Rome might turn out to be his home. Where did he belong, this son of Caesar's and mine?

"Here," I said, handing him the pendant I had kept for him. "It is time you took this. It is yours--from Caesar himself."

Chapter 63.

To the most glorious Queen, Cleopatra--from a student in Rome, reporting on Egyptian medicines: Hail, Queen of all beauty, dark-haired as moonless midnight, slender as the Nile before flood time, graceful as the serpent that guards your ancestral crown: I kiss your feet in their jeweled sandals. I console myself that everyone throughout the known world wishes they could do so. I pledge my soul to your health, and will climb crumbling desert cliffs to procure herbs to soften your skin; will dive into the cold depths of water off Rhodes to bring up the daintiest sponges to dab your eyes; will milk a panther to whiten your hands. I will-- Now that I am past the first turn of the scroll, I can stop this nonsense. I will have lost any spying reader back in that welter of groveling. But you probably enjoyed it. Come now, admit it. Did you suspect it was from me? Or did you think it was Antony? He probably talks like that to you--if only in private.

At least that is what they are saying here in Rome. Oh, I have heard a great deal, without even trying. Sometimes it is all lean do to keep my mouth shut, not to shout, "No, Antony does not wear bedclothes to audiences! No, he does not use a golden chamber least that is what they are saying here in Rome. Oh, I have heard a great deal, without even trying. Sometimes it is all lean do to keep my mouth shut, not to shout, "No, Antony does not wear bedclothes to audiences! No, he does not use a golden chamber pot"-- pot"--I swear, that tale is being told of him, with the proviso "a thing of which even Cleopatra would be ashamed." He is being painted as debauched, corrupted, un-Roman, and all under the unmanly influence of the Queen of Egypt. We don't need to ask who has put these rumors into circulation, but they are thriving. They make such a colorful story! And people would always rather have color than earth-toned truth.

Octavian, in contrast, paints himself wan and white--a virtuous ghost of old Roman piety. The ghost part comes from Caesar, whom he invokes regularly as "son of the divine JuliusHe is in the process of making Rome white. Now that the civil wars are over--so he stresses--it is time that Rome was clad in in marble. The rivalry with Alexandria could not be more obvious. He wants a Rome as white as our glorious city, so he has hinted to his loyal followers, and they are obediently paying for public works out of their own purses. New temples are rising everywhere, basilicas, monuments, libraries, amphitheaters, and there is even talk that Octavian is contemplating a huge mausoleum for himself, to rise on the banks of the Tiber. marble. The rivalry with Alexandria could not be more obvious. He wants a Rome as white as our glorious city, so he has hinted to his loyal followers, and they are obediently paying for public works out of their own purses. New temples are rising everywhere, basilicas, monuments, libraries, amphitheaters, and there is even talk that Octavian is contemplating a huge mausoleum for himself, to rise on the banks of the Tiber.

Even the stink has subsided, as Agrippa had the Cloaca Maxima cleaned out, and has built a new aqueduct to bring in more water. And (doubtless at his masters bidding) he has dangled free services before the people--shaves, admission to the baths, theater, food and clothing tokens, open admission to the Circus. He wants them to see him-- Octavian--as the great Roman benefactor.

Why, even as I write this, I am using one of the free oil lamps distributed throughout the city--by them. them. I must bring it back to you. It commemorates the battle ofNaulochus with a row of silver dolphins, reminding everyone of the naval victory against s.e.xtus. Who am I to pa.s.s up a free lamp? So I use it. So do hundreds of others. They are very clever, this Octavian and his Agrippa. I must bring it back to you. It commemorates the battle ofNaulochus with a row of silver dolphins, reminding everyone of the naval victory against s.e.xtus. Who am I to pa.s.s up a free lamp? So I use it. So do hundreds of others. They are very clever, this Octavian and his Agrippa.

It occurs to me that perhaps if Agrippa s own ambition could be fired a bit, so he extricated himself from his master . . . perhaps his loyalty would wane as his pride rose. But alas, he seems wholly devoted to the Son of the Divine Julius.

I just reread this--and am horrified. I sound like a newly hatched politician. The atmosphere in Rome must have invaded my brain. The very air is air is politics. politics.

As for my studies, they are already proving most profitable. Should we fight another war, I will be able to perform miracles, even sewing back severed heads. (I cannot do that yet. But next month . . . ) Your son is happy, and blends in here all too well. He has proved invisible, as he predicted. In three days it is the Divine Julius's birthday, and Rome is readying itself for public observance. It is fortunate Caesarion is here at this time to see it for himself.

I should close. There is a s.h.i.+p leaving this evening. I stop here to allow your son to add his own message, before the boat leaves.

All those fulsome phrases--part of me means them. I pray this finds you well, until my return. Your Olympos.

To my mother, most exalted Queen: We arrived here after only twenty days--a miracle at this time of year! I know it bodes well for us; it means the G.o.ds themselves helped us to get here quickly. All along I knew it was right, but this confirms it.

How sad you were for me to go. I hope you have gotten over it by now. You promised to ride Cyllarus for me, soke wont be lonely and miss me too much. I would have told Antony to, but I think he weighs too much, and my dear horse wouldn't like it.

We are all settled in a part of Rome they say is disreputable--the Subura! That way no one will ever think to look for us, or suspect anything. The Subura is east of the Forum, and it's very crowded and noisy. They live in things called insula-- insula--islands--that are apartments stacked one on top of another, some of them five or six apartments high. There isn't much light down on the street, so you can't see the garbage you are stepping in. People eat all their meals on the street, buying from little shops. It's great fun--everything feels so naughty, like being on a holiday. Nothing is settled and normal.

Olympos spends a lot of time on the island in the middle of the Tiber, where there's a hospital for poor people and wounded veterans. That leaves me free to amuse myself. Just walking the streets here is an adventure. I will tell you more in a later letter. I can't rush describing things that are important to me. Tell Alexander and Selene that there are a lot of cats here--more than I've ever seen. They are lurking on every corner and in every window. But there are no crocodiles in the Tiber.

Your loving son, P. Caesar.