The Memoirs of Cleopatra
Chapter 89 : P. S. The Ludi Apollinares Ludi Apollinares are being celebrated--many days of chariot

P. S. The Ludi Apollinares Ludi Apollinares are being celebrated--many days of chariot races and games, in honor of Apollo. Why don't we have anything like that? are being celebrated--many days of chariot races and games, in honor of Apollo. Why don't we have anything like that?

I put the letter down, feeling curiously heavy. Outside, beyond my shaded balcony, the sea lay flat and motionless. The weather was uncharacteristically hot and oppressive--the way I had described Rome. Now it was as if my words had returned to mock me.

The perfume I had put on could not escape my skin; the air imprisoned it. I felt mummified, bound by cloth and aromatic smears of ointment.

I should be pleased to hear they had arrived safely. Olympos was doing useful work. Caesarion seemed fascinated with Rome. As I expected, he would find the good in it and compare it to Alexandria--that was what children did. It did not escape me that he signed himself "P. Caesar."

But I did not like the news. I did not like it that Agrippa and Octavian were doing public works; and even the building of the mausoleum seemed suspect. Octavian was only twenty-seven years old--why was he building a mausoleum? Was it supposed to be a national shrine? And what was all this talk about Antony and golden chamber pots--when the talk should be about his victory in Parthia?

I would have to show the letters to Antony, but I did not expect any helpful response from him. He was sunk in gloom because his lieutenant t.i.tius had executed s.e.xtus once he brought him to Miletus, without waiting for Antony's orders. Now that s.e.xtus was dead, a chorus of voices bewailed him: the last son of the Republic . . . the son of Neptune . . . the pirate-king . . . n.o.ble Roman, the last of his kind. . . . the last son of the Republic . . . the son of Neptune . . . the pirate-king . . . n.o.ble Roman, the last of his kind. . . .

It disgusted me. s.e.xtus was nothing but a renegade, a brilliant admiral who did not have the sense to follow up any victory, make alliances, or provide his followers any cause to rally for. But then his father, Pompey, had had the same problem. After Pharsalus Caesar had said that if Pompey had known how to follow up a victory, he--Caesar--would have been beaten then and there. "The war would have been won today if the enemy had a man who knew how to conquer," was how he put it. Now Pompey's line ended, condemned by that same trait in his son.

But Antony was reaping all the opprobrium about it. He was blamed for not being "merciful" like Octavian in sparing Lepidus; he was painted as a cruel executioner. Once again I knew who was putting out these stories.

The stories . . . they were powerful, and might do the work of armies, in time. In. any case, Antony was taking it hard, and I did not want to bring up the subject of Rome just now. I put the letters aside, and waited for the next.

Dearest Mother: The past few days have been so exciting I hardly know where to begin in telling you about them! I have been all over Rome--up on all the seven hills, and to the Circus to see the free races, and even out into the countryside . . . it's so different from Egypt! But you have seen all those things, and don't need me to describe them. What I can tell you that no one else ever can is how it feels to discover that my father is real. I know you have done everything possible to make him so for me. You put the bust of him in my room, and told me things he had said-- little things, that no one else would know--and made me learn Latin so I could read his reports. But he was still not real to me, he was more like a pretend game you and I played. Or like the imaginary playmates the twins tell me about.

But now I come here and everyone everyone is part of the game, everyone pretends to know him or believe in him. There are statues of him everywhere, and in all different poses, so I can see him sitting or standing or smiling or frowning. People talk about him as if he were here; his Forum is a popular place, with the fountain splas.h.i.+ng, and the statue of him on horseback. is part of the game, everyone pretends to know him or believe in him. There are statues of him everywhere, and in all different poses, so I can see him sitting or standing or smiling or frowning. People talk about him as if he were here; his Forum is a popular place, with the fountain splas.h.i.+ng, and the statue of him on horseback.

I went inside the temple, and just as you said--there was your statue! I like to imagine Caesar showing it to you, and all the Romans being shocked by it. And the one of him on the other side--well, it's nice to see you together, if only in marble.

I went up to the villa, the one Caesar gave to the people in his will, and walked along the paths, and tried to see if I remembered anything. But I felt as though I had never seen it before. The house is used by the groundskeepers now, and I was not allowed in.

But the best thing was seeing his temple, the Temple of the Divine Julius, in the Forum. There's a finely carved statue of him, wearing his star of G.o.dhood like a diadem, and I just stood very quietly and communed with him. Yes, I felt as if he were talking to me, that he sensed I was there, and he was pleased with me and . . . loved me. How odd I feel, writing this down! The feeling was so overwhelming at the time, but now it seems silly, written down. I listened carefully to what people said when they came, bringing flowers or candles or offerings to place at his feet. They were talking to him, too.

"Caesar," one woman said, "have pity on my son, who is serving with the army in Illyria. Protect him. . . ."

And a boy about my own age asked, "Caesar, let me grow up to be a brave warrior like you. . . ."

And a man: "Here is an offering to give thanks for your birth sixty-five years ago tomorrow." Then he placed a wreath at the base of the statue.

And I said silently, "Please, Father, look with favor on your son, your namesake." And I felt his hand on my hair ... I know know it was real. it was real.

There will be special festivities at the shrine tomorrow, and all over the city the statues will be garlanded. Thank you for letting me come. Thank you for teaching me enough about him that I wanted wanted to come. to come.

Your loving son, P. Caesar P. S. And there is a whole month month named after him, so every day for thirty days people have to say and write his name!!! named after him, so every day for thirty days people have to say and write his name!!!

I smiled. So his dream had come true; he could immerse himself in the presence of Caesar. The a.s.sa.s.sins had failed after all; Caesar was still alive in Rome.

To the Queen, my mistress: the Queen, my mistress: I mean that in the sovereign sense, of course. All is well. I write here to describe the events at the Temple of the Divine Julius, because I knew you would be curious about them.

On the twelfth day of the former month of Quintilis, now Julius, the great, the near-great, and the not-so-great gathered to honor the deified Caesar on his birthday. Since the miraculous comet was seen in the sky at this time nine years ago, it has grown into a major holiday. Well before dawn, a stream of devotees came to lay down their offerings, but it was not until midmorning that the formal observances got under way.

Poems were read. Vergil--your favorite poet, after his celebration of Antony and Octavia's wedding!--made the following offering. He stepped forward, unrolled a scroll, and recited: "Daphnis, in radiant beauty, marvels at Heaven s unfamiliar threshold, and beneath his feet beholds the clouds and the stars. A A G.o.d is he, a G.o.d, Menalcas!' Be kind and gracious to thine own!" Then he unrolled another one and read, "Who dare say the G.o.d is he, a G.o.d, Menalcas!' Be kind and gracious to thine own!" Then he unrolled another one and read, "Who dare say the sun sun is false? Nay, he oft warns us that dark uprisings threaten, that treachery and hidden wars are upswelling. Nay, he had pity for is false? Nay, he oft warns us that dark uprisings threaten, that treachery and hidden wars are upswelling. Nay, he had pity for Rome Rome when, after Caesar sank from sight, he veiled his s.h.i.+ning face in dusky gloom, and a G.o.dless age feared everlasting night.'' when, after Caesar sank from sight, he veiled his s.h.i.+ning face in dusky gloom, and a G.o.dless age feared everlasting night.''

He then looked around with those dark eyes to see what effect his words had, before launching into his true speech. When he saw how raptly everyone was listening, he suddenly read, "Never from a cloudless sky fell more lightnings; never so oft blazed fearful comets. G.o.ds of my country, heroes of the land, thou Romulus, and thou Vesta, our mother, that guard Tuscan Tiber and the Palatine of Rome, at least stay not this young prince from aiding a world uptorn!"

And I swear, I thought he was talking about Caesarion, that he had magically known we were present and would turn his eyes to us. But no, it soon became plain whom he meant.

"Enough has our life's blood fong atoned for Laomedon's perjury at Troy; enough have Heaven s courts bng grudged thee, O Caesar, to us, murmuring that you pay heed to earthly triumphs. . . ."

It was Octavian he meant; it was Octavian who was the "young prince," and whenever the name Caesar is invoked, it is hard to know which one they want. The "young prince" has crept into the name, occupying it so thoroughly that the ident.i.ties are now blended. I was a fool not to have seen it immediately.

No one calls him Octavian any longer; I was met with frowns when I did so, as if people had to think even to recall that was how he had started out. He is CAESAR CAESAR now, sometimes "the young Caesar" to distinguish him from the real one. But even that distinction is fading. now, sometimes "the young Caesar" to distinguish him from the real one. But even that distinction is fading.

He finished up with "Daphnis, why are you gazing at the old constellations rising? See! the star of Caesar, seed of Dione, has gone forth--the star to make the fields glad with corn, and the grape deepen its hue on the sunny hills." He then reverently touched the silver star on the statue's forehead.

Another poet, a little younger, stepped forward--that Horace--you know, the one who fought alongside Brutus. He, too, unrolled a scroll, and started reading. ''Merciful gift of a relenting G.o.d,'' he addressed the statue. "Home of the homeless, preordained for you. Last vestige of the age of gold; last refuge of the good and bold; From stars malign, from plague and tempests free, far 'mid the western waves a secret sanctuary." Blast me if I know what it meant, but everyone murmured approvingly.

After that there were processions with the priests of the order, hymns, and of course the inevitable gifts of oil and meat in the name of the G.o.d Caesar. I watched Caesarion fingering the pendant that he has worn since leaving Alexandria. I was afraid he was going to obey some impulse and present it to the statue, but thanks be to Isis--or perhaps Caesar himself--he didn't. (I would have had to sneak back and retrieve it. I know from experience that such dramatic gestures of sacrifice are bitterly repented afterward, when it is too late. Would that some kindly person had undone some of perhaps Caesar himself--he didn't. (I would have had to sneak back and retrieve it. I know from experience that such dramatic gestures of sacrifice are bitterly repented afterward, when it is too late. Would that some kindly person had undone some of mine. mine. But it was unnecessary.) But it was unnecessary.) I am tired. I will end this letter. G.o.d-watching is very draining. It is early to bed for me tonight.

Your devoted friend and servant, Olympos .

I felt tired, reading it. All these ceremonies grown up around Caesar and his shrine--it made my head ache thinking of it. Or perhaps it was the continuing flat, heavy heat that made my head ache. The G.o.d of the winds had shut them all up in a bag as surely as he had for Odysseus. Nothing stirred, no s.h.i.+ps could sail. Only the straining muscles of oarsmen could move vessels, and although their skins shone with sweat, it did not cool them.

In the blazing heat of midday, livestock died--cattle dropped over, swine collapsed, and inside the royal stables I had rows of servants on duty to fan continually. Cyllarus had to survive to welcome Caesarion home, as well as the fine horses that were the pride of the palace.

Antony was drooping as he went about his business listlessly. He was trying to ascertain exactly what had happened to s.e.xtus, and how his orders had become so confused. He had sent word for t.i.tius to report to us at Alexandria, and meanwhile was planning his delayed punitive invasion of Armenia. " "But it will have to wait until next year," he admitted. "It is too late now." He acted as if he did not care.

Just then Iras appeared in the doorway, bringing an Indian boy who served in one of the chambers. Several years ago the s.h.i.+p he had come with--along with silks, ivory, and sandalwood--had left without him, stranding him. He had since been employed at tending the silks and embroideries in the royal wardrobe, knowing, as he did, how to clean them and rid them of wrinkles.

"Vimala has a suggestion for cooling our chambers," said Iras, urging him forward. "He says it works well in his city."

"Yes, madam," he said, bowing up and down so fast he looked like a bobbing chicken. "And most gracious sir." He turned to Antony and repeated the performance.

"Well, what is it?" It looked as if this bowing would go on all morning, and he himself drop over from exertion.

"This open doorway," he said, crossing over to the entrance onto the rooftop terrace--now radiating heat like a kiln as the sun beat down on it. "Does air blow in here?"

"Yes, normally, off the sea."

"Ah. Then we can try this. In India we hang weighted, beaded strings across doorways and pour water onto the 'mother' strip. It drips down all the 'daughter' strips and as the wind blows across it, the air is cooled."

It sounded too simple to be effective.

"It can make this chamber cool, my lady, even when it is blistering hot outside. In India, it is hotter than this every day in summer."

"Very well--I am willing to try!" I told him. Anything to free my body and mind from this oppression. My arms felt as though gossamer linens, soaked in hot water, had been placed on them. And as for touching Antony--the thought of more warm skin on mine was unbearable.

As the boy departed, I said to Iras, "Perhaps deliverance is at hand. I thank you."

I handed the letter to Antony. He read it silently, then finally said, "So Octavian is no longer Octavian--he has escaped from his pedestrian past."

"Is that all you have to say?" Surely he understood the implications!

"What do you want me to say? It's his business what he calls himself. He's legally ent.i.tled to the 'Caesar'--it's Caesar himself who adopted him."

"I've always thought it suspicious that the adoption was a secret from Octavian. If Caesar wanted to adopt him, why not tell him?"

"What difference does it make now?"

"I'm just trying to understand it!"

"No, you are trying to prove it was a forgery. Well, it wasn't. It was in that will. I saw it."

"I wonder if there wasn't another will--a later one--one that named Caesarion--"

"If there was, it's gone. Please stop this. Caesarion will have to wrest any inheritance he gets away from Octavian. There cannot be two Caesars."

"Yes, I know." I knew it deeply. "At least this journey to Rome has shown him what he has been deprived of. You were right to say he must go."

Antony frowned. "That is not why I said he must go. I thought he must go for personal reasons, not political ones."

"I think when you are a Ptolemy and a Caesar, they cannot exist separately."

To the most gracious and wise Queen of Egypt, dispenser of justice: the most gracious and wise Queen of Egypt, dispenser of justice: Hail. I salute you, and I salute me, for I have been working very hard, actually creating false noses on men who have lost theirs in battle--of course they are not perfect, but better than a gaping hole--and I have been listening very hard to all the news. Of an evening I stroll up the Palatine hill, at twilight when the breezes rise and rustle in the odd, flat pines they have here, and I pa.s.s Antony's house nearby, where I look long and observe. First, it is in good condition, nicely trimmed and clean--I know you will be relieved to hear--and the gardens are thriving. A bevy of servants is always about, lending an air of bustle to the place. Octavia presides over it like a proper Roman matron, and once I glimpsed her strolling between some cypresses on the sloped hill garden. The word--which I hear around the public fountains--is that her brother has ordered her to leave your house, Imperator, but that she doggedly stays, maintaining that that is her home as your wife. I could almost suspect that Octavian wishes her to stay, because she is ruining your reputation by being the martyr, faithful to a faithless man, and so on--selflessly dedicating herself to raising your children, even Antyllus and lullus by her predecessor, and entertaining your senatorial friends at home. If he had wanted to blacken your character, Imperator, he scarcely could have found a better vessel. I have been listening very hard to all the news. Of an evening I stroll up the Palatine hill, at twilight when the breezes rise and rustle in the odd, flat pines they have here, and I pa.s.s Antony's house nearby, where I look long and observe. First, it is in good condition, nicely trimmed and clean--I know you will be relieved to hear--and the gardens are thriving. A bevy of servants is always about, lending an air of bustle to the place. Octavia presides over it like a proper Roman matron, and once I glimpsed her strolling between some cypresses on the sloped hill garden. The word--which I hear around the public fountains--is that her brother has ordered her to leave your house, Imperator, but that she doggedly stays, maintaining that that is her home as your wife. I could almost suspect that Octavian wishes her to stay, because she is ruining your reputation by being the martyr, faithful to a faithless man, and so on--selflessly dedicating herself to raising your children, even Antyllus and lullus by her predecessor, and entertaining your senatorial friends at home. If he had wanted to blacken your character, Imperator, he scarcely could have found a better vessel.

They also say--again around the fountains, many of them installed by the generosity of Agrippa--that Octavian and his party are helping to improve the lives of ordinary Romans, whereas his f.e.c.kless Triumviral partner squanders his money in the east, with the golden chamber pots. (That detail has certainly caught people's imaginations. Do you have one? I don't recall.) They also talk about jewel-encrusted writing tablets, thrones, and eunuchs. They gossip about the Queen as a man-hungry enchantress, whose only mission in life is snaring n.o.ble Romans. They make you sound like a spider, sitting in a web of jeweled allure, trapping any Roman general foolhardy enough to venture into the east. Nothing is said about a marriage, legal or otherwise. Nothing at all is said about Parthia or Armenia, either.

I am happy to report that Caesarion's Latin has become quite proficient; I hear him chattering away at the food vendors' and ironmongers' and sandalmakers'. He has also grown in the past few weeks, and needs new clothes--which he enjoys wearing. He is quite well disguised in his Roman garb. It amuses me to watch him.

I will describe the nose-restoration surgery when I see you. It is quite ingenious.

May you never need it!

Your devoted, and busy, Olympos .

The words. .h.i.t me heavier than the still-sultry air in the palace. Octavia again! Yes, Olympos was right--what a perfect weapon she was, in the right hands! The more virtuous she was, the worse Antony appeared for failing to appreciate this paragon of womanhood.

I threw the letter down in disgust. What could I do? Nothing!

I retired to the "cooled" room. Vimala's invention worked quite well; as faint breezes pa.s.sed through the soaked strings, like a lyre dripping with water, a damp coolness pervaded the air. It had been a relief to be able to retreat here, and I had ordered similar devices installed in other chambers as well.

I poured some perfume out into a handkerchief and wiped my forehead. The scent--a compound of black hyacinth and violet--helped to clear my head. Should I even show Antony the letter? What good would it do, except to make him want to run back to Rome? No, there was no point. I put it away, where he would not see it.

To the Queen: the Queen: My hand is still trembling and I can barely write this. But I have to; only by writing it can I calm myself and put it in its proper place. Shall I tell it from the ending backward, or in order? Order, I think. To restore order, one must impose order.

Well, then. It was a firte summer evening, of the sort we enjoy every night. The crowds for the Ludi Apollinares Ludi Apollinares and the birthday of and the birthday of Divus Julius Divus Julius had departed, letting the city return to normal. There is always a feeling of relief after a festival is over, and the shopkeepers and ordinary people seemed in high spirits. There was the usual sauntering in the streets, the loitering at taverns, the strolling toward the riverbanks or public gardens. had departed, letting the city return to normal. There is always a feeling of relief after a festival is over, and the shopkeepers and ordinary people seemed in high spirits. There was the usual sauntering in the streets, the loitering at taverns, the strolling toward the riverbanks or public gardens. As As Caesarion and I climbed the steps up to our third-floor apartment, I could not help feeling a pang of deprivation for all the amus.e.m.e.nts beckoning at street level. But I had promised to keep your precious son out of mischief! And so we dutifully trudged upstairs, where nothing awaited us but some middling-quality wine, overripe fruit, and boring books. Although it was still fairly light outside, the rooms were getting dark. I lighted three oil lamps--including the s.e.xtus one, strange how one remembers such details--and prepared for a quiet evening. There were some medical writings I needed to check, and Caesarion would practice his Latin declensions. It promised all the excitement of keeping watch at a cemetery--even less, truth to tell, because there were no ghosts. Caesarion and I climbed the steps up to our third-floor apartment, I could not help feeling a pang of deprivation for all the amus.e.m.e.nts beckoning at street level. But I had promised to keep your precious son out of mischief! And so we dutifully trudged upstairs, where nothing awaited us but some middling-quality wine, overripe fruit, and boring books. Although it was still fairly light outside, the rooms were getting dark. I lighted three oil lamps--including the s.e.xtus one, strange how one remembers such details--and prepared for a quiet evening. There were some medical writings I needed to check, and Caesarion would practice his Latin declensions. It promised all the excitement of keeping watch at a cemetery--even less, truth to tell, because there were no ghosts.

And as we sat there, in the dim light, I heard a knock and carelessly said, "Come in." One gets to know one's neighbors in these close quarters, and I was well acquainted with Gaius the butcher and Marcus the baker, and Zeus knows how many others. I almost turned to stone when I looked up and saw Octavian step in.

I knew it was he--who else could look so like all the statues? Or, I should say, a version version of the statues. The statues look like the handsomest man in creation, and he is not--although he is handsome enough, that I grant you. And I must give the statues credit for preserving his individual features--his little ears that are set low down on his head, and his triangular face. That was how I recognized him. of the statues. The statues look like the handsomest man in creation, and he is not--although he is handsome enough, that I grant you. And I must give the statues credit for preserving his individual features--his little ears that are set low down on his head, and his triangular face. That was how I recognized him.

I could barely speak--and you know that is unusual for me.

"Good evening, Olympos," he said, further robbing me of speech. Then he turned toward Caesarion, who was staring at him, and just nodded, without calling him anything. He looked around the room, disdainfully, as if to say, Is this your disguise? Is this your disguise? But he conveyed it all wordlessly, his eyes sending the message. But he conveyed it all wordlessly, his eyes sending the message.

And those eyes . . . clear, grayish blue, utterly emotionless. I have never seen another creature's eyes like that; even dead soldiers' do not have that flatness to them, a flatness with life yet behind it, watching.

"Good evening, Triumvir," I heard myself saying. "Fine night, isn't it? What brings you here? I thought you were busy in Illyria." Did that sound controlled enough? I hoped to match him and ruffle his calmness. Let him think I had expected him. " him. "Did you have trouble finding us?"

"None." He gave an imitation of a smile.

"Well, they say your spy system is good. I suppose you need it--so many enemies." many enemies."

Caesarion had risen to his feet. I am pleased to report he was almost the same height as the Son of the G.o.d. But then, he is also the Son of the G.o.d. All that celestial company!

Octavian turned to him, that false smile still spread across his face. "Welcome to Rome, Your Majesty," he said. "It has been a long time--some nine or ten years, I believe--since I have seen you. You should have notified me, so I could receive you officially."

"We did not wish to trouble you, Triumvir, since you were away fighting the enemies of Rome," said Caesarion. I was impressed by his quick response. "It would have been an imposition."

"Nonsense!" said Octavian. "You insult me by thinking so."

"No insult was intended, Triumvir," said Caesarion.

Both of them stared at one another, curiosity gripping them.

Finally, Octavian broke the silence. "But you do insult me by sneaking into my city, by using my family name, and by claiming to be the son of my father." He was staring intently at the pendant with the Caesarean emblem on it, which was too clearly visible around the boy's neck.

"The city of Rome is not your your city, Caesar himself allowed me to use his name, and furthermore, he is not your father--he is your great-uncle," countered Caesarion. city, Caesar himself allowed me to use his name, and furthermore, he is not your father--he is your great-uncle," countered Caesarion.

''Great-uncle by birth, father by adoption,'' said Octavian. ''At least I share his blood, which you do not. Everyone knows--it is common knowledge--that you are a b.a.s.t.a.r.d with an unknown father. If the Queen has told you otherwise, she has done you a great wrong."

''Now you insult my mother!'' said Caesarion fiercely. ' 'She would never lie."

"She lied to Caesar, pretending to carry his child, when all the world knew he was incapable of fathering children."

"I beg your pardon, Triumvir," I broke in, "but as a physician I must disagree with you. He had a daughter, Julia."

"Yes, born thirty years before this--boy."

"What does that prove? Perhaps his wives weren't fertile."

"All three of them?"