Pharaoh
She has announced that she is making a last visit to the tomb of her husband before she is taken to Rome. The physician Olympus reported to Octavian that the queen was too ill to walk and had to be carried to her final communion with Antony, lest her weakened condition prevent future travel. Her small procession includes Charmion and Iras, and servants carrying decorations for his grave-garlands, a goblet of his favorite wine to pour as a last libation, and baskets full of flowers and grapes to lay on top of his gold sarcophagus. They follow her litter on foot, along with the ubiquitous Roman guard. She has heard that Octavian laughs at her constant surveillance, saying that the queen must be quite satisfied now; that she always wanted a Roman army at her side.
Her only regret is that she cannot take one last look at her city, and perhaps that is best. She is as weak-or as strong-as Antony, who did not want to leave this life, despite that he had lost almost everything. Though she has been ill, she feels her body on the mend, and she is incensed at the irony. She has lived only to die. Isn’t that the human condition? What has been the point of it all? she asks herself in these last moments she will have to think. What is the point of so much suffering? So much activity? So much effort that has resulted in the opposite of her intentions?
She remembers the voice of long-dead Demetrius-was he in her dream as her father danced for the Romans?-the philosopher who tutored her for years at the Mouseion. It is not the outcome but the effort, he would say, reminding her that there was no quantifiable sum of a human life, no way to measure Virtue, that elusive quality that Socrates said could never be taught but was remembered by the soul. Has she lived the virtuous life? Demetrius used to tell her that a life of action and not philosophy was her destiny. How right he had been. But was it possible to reconcile a virtuous life with a life of action? That was a question she had neglected to ask. War, politics, rivalry, lust, love. She has spent her life in these arenas. Wars, Socrates said, were undertaken for money, and for the concerns of the body. We are slaves of the body, and we must acquire wealth to please it. The body keeps us enchained all through life and we must look forward to death so that we might be finally free of the body’s demands. But Kleopatra cannot agree with the philosopher’s assessment. She did not go to war to build wealth but to preserve what was left of the world’s beauty after it had been trampled and bled by Rome. Her kingdom she tried to defend to honor her ancestors and to secure the power of her children. And if she might choose right now whether to be relieved of the body’s concerns or to resurrect Antony and relive the body’s pleasures, she would choose resurrection. She would choose to wrap her arms around her children rather than free herself from the responsibility of protecting them. Perhaps death will be the great liberator the philosopher promised, but at this moment, Kleopatra is angry that she must make an abrupt end to this body that might have gone on enjoying the sun on her face or the air through her hair as she rides her horse in the mornings on the Nile’s marshy banks.
But if there is any hope-that damnable word again-that the three little ones will not have the same bloody fate as Caesarion and Antyllus, she will happily trade the pleasures she has known for the mysteries of death.
She hears her name sounded outside in cries and whispers by the people. She is grateful that she cannot see the faces. They have come to catch a final glimpse of their queen, for word of her long journey has spread to every quarter of the city. Little do they know that it will be entirely different than the one they believe she will be making.
At the mausoleum, she insists that she be carried inside before she gets out of the litter. She does not want her dress to give away her plans to the guard. She listens to the guard inspect the baskets of decorations and libations and offerings for weapons, for instruments of death, and she holds her breath. Someone makes a joke about the plumpness of the figs, and Iras invites him to try one, but he says that no, he only wishes to split one open and lick its insides, which he does, lasciviously, because she hears his fellow soldiers snicker. Satisfied, they admit only her and Charmion and Iras. The litter is put down by the bearers, and the baskets are placed on the ground, and the servants and guards leave, closing the great doors behind them. Iras helps her out of the carriage, and she is dizzy and disoriented as she stands in the room where she held the body of her bleeding, dying husband. The treasures have been removed and little remains but for the statues she brought in to honor Antony in death, and the golden couch upon which he died.
In Antony’s death chamber, she smells the sweet, dying roses laid on his sarcophagus days before. She sweeps them aside so that she might look at his visage molded in bronze. His arms are folded across his chest and cannot reach out to her. She takes the bottle of wine she has brought for the occasion and pours it over the coffin. “Are you ready for me, my love? I am coming to you, and I do not wish to catch you in a dalliance with Persephone or any of the Nereids or Muses who have caught your eye in the next world. Like Hera, I am a jealous mistress.” She runs her fingers over his full lips, teasing them with wine as she had done so many times, expecting the cold cast to turn into his warm receptive mouth and take her finger inside. She wonders who will be waiting for her, and if, in the underworld, she will have to choose between Caesar and Antony. She wonders if all of life’s trials are continued, or if the philosophers are correct and she will be free from worldly anxiety. Ataraxia.
“We must hurry,” Charmion says. “You will see your husband soon enough.”
Yes, time is essential. It seems that every moment she breathes, the lives of Selene and Alexander and Philip are threatened.
Kleopatra is depending upon the skills boasted by Iras that he can handle a poisonous snake. She is dubious about this, yet she has little choice but to believe that his fascination with Egyptian snake charmers led to this strange ability. She has taken no chances and has a vial of fast-acting poison wound in the knot of hair at the nape of her neck. But even the physician Olympus, consulted at the last minute, admitted that no death was as swift or as seemingly painless as the venom of a cobra. “The Egyptian executioners used to administer the bite to the condemned,” he said, “but found it too merciful a death for a criminal.” Olympus had treated the Royal Family since the birth of Caesarion, and she did not doubt his loyalty. Even if he had agreed to join the roster of Octavian’s payroll, it would take some time for his heart to follow his pockets. He promised her, with tears in his eyes, that she would feel “a sharp sting, at first unbearable, but quickly it turns into numbness. I have seen victims laughing as if drunk, so there must be a pleasantness to the venom. Soon, your eyes will close, and you will begin to dream, quickly slipping into the eternal dream of death.”
Iras tells her that whoever is bitten by the cobra goes directly to the gods, for the snake carries an immortal elixir. The cobra, the reptile whose face rises above the Egyptian crown, has protected Pharaoh for thousands of years. When the Egyptian people hear of the means by which the queen has gone to the gods, they will know that she has not died, but taken her place among the immortals.
Kleopatra warily eyes the baskets that contain the asps. “You do not have to join me,” she says. “This is my voyage, my Fate.”
Charmion merely shakes her head. Iras says, “Do you think I will let my queen meet the gods with unkempt hair and a rumpled gown? I am going to the gods with you as your divine dresser.”
Charmion takes her hand. “We are many years past words, Kleopatra. You have been my life here on earth, and I am yours in death. It is a promise I made to the king.”
“My father?” she asks.
“I made the vow to two kings, your father, and the Imperator,” Charmion replies. “It was his final request to me. ’Keep her safe until we meet again.’ I am to deliver you to him or be haunted by his angry ghost.”
“I never believed I would have heard you call the Imperator a king.”
“He was because he was deemed so by a great queen.”
Kleopatra cannot believe that this gentl
e eunuch who runs brushes through her hair so softly, who winds beautiful jewels and golden pins into her locks with such precision and love, will pick up a long and deadly snake and hold it to their arms. But he opens the baskets eagerly, carefully removing the garlands that guard their secret.
“How is it that they have not stirred?” Kleopatra asks.
“Fear and cunning keep them dormant until they have a sure strike at their victim.” Iras’s eyes are vibrant, like shiny peanuts soaked in oil to soften them. He has made up his face impeccably for the occasion, eyes ringed with sleek black lines, cheeks reddened to a virgins blush. Kleopatra believes he is a little drunk. In recent months, he has worn a coal black hairpiece to cover the bald spot at the back of his head. Charmion wears the same Greek chiton she has worn since Kleopatra has known her. She has not had to alter her dress nor her hair nor her cosmetics to suit her age because she has always had the air of a dignified old woman.
The mausoleum is cool though it is the tenth day of August, a notoriously hot month in Egypt, even by the sea. The morning light intrudes through the high windows, making a white haze above their heads. Kleopatra lies on the golden couch where Antony breathed his last. She is tired of words. Every minute she lives might rob one of her children of their lives. “I will say no more,” she tells Charmion and Iras. “Come and kiss me.”
Iras kneels next to her and puts his head into her bosom as if he were a child. He is trying not to cry, and she tells him that he is the one who must be brave. He cannot fail her. The stakes are too high. “I love the little ones, too, Your Majesty,” he weeps into her chest. He pulls his face away and she sees that the black around his eyes has streaked. He intuitively knows this and wipes his eyes clean with wet thumbs.
Charmion kisses Kleopatra’s cheek. “I shall see you shortly. It is no more than if I left to fetch you a blanket.”
“You have been mother to a motherless child,” Kleopatra whispers to her, suddenly aware that she has never before realized this, much less thanked Charmion for taking a mother’s role. But Charmion puts her finger on the queen’s lips. “It is enough to have been near you,” she says. For the first time, Kleopatra feels the full force of Charmion’s love; she has been its only recipient, a fact and condition she has taken for granted all these years. Kleopatra thinks of all the love that she has given to men and to children and to the people of Egypt. Charmion has hoarded that watershed of love for Kleopatra alone.
She is floating in this love and crying. She urges Iras to hurry, but
he no longer seems aware of her. He has locked his attention to the creature in the basket. He is utterly still. It seems that nothing is happening at all, until she sees a hook of an almond-colored head rise out of the basket as if waking up to its morning. Iras kneels, locking eyes with the creature. Kleopatra wants to close her eyes. She does not want to see what Iras will do, or if he will be hurt trying to do it, but it is too fascinating a sight, this man and this asp riveted to one another. Charmion kneels by her side, stiff and still. Iras moves backward, and the snake follows him, rising higher and higher out of the basket. Kleopatra thinks her heart has already stopped. Charmion takes the queen’s arms and spreads them wide, just as they had discussed, exposing the vulnerable white flesh. Kleopatra does not want the creature near her face, so they have decided to let its venom enter her left arm-near the heart so that death will not have far to travel. She knows that if she screams, if she protests, if she utters a word, she can alter the text of this drama, but she remains silent, waiting. At some moment of his choosing, Iras reaches forward and takes the snake by its body. It does not lunge at him but allows itself to be grasped. If it escapes, it will not matter because there are two more snakes in the baskets, each waiting to take another life.
Iras has the thing securely in his hands now, holding it away from his body and walking toward the queen as if offering some unholy gift. She tries to take in the features of the snake-the diamond cuts of its skin, the pale gold eyes, the flaring hood of its neck, the forked tongue. Precisely the likeness she has worn upon her own head for so many years. She tries not to move though her heart has returned to her body and is beating wildly in her chest. She closes her eyes so that she does not leap off the couch in some natural instinct to protect her life. She hears Iras’s labored breathing approach. “Yes,” he says. And she feels a sting in her arm that reminds her of the worst pain she has felt, that of childbirth. There is a searing in her arm so bad she wishes she might call for a surgeon to cut it off. But she remembers that the last time she felt this agony she was bringing life into the world. This time, the pain is keeping those she loves in this world and alive. The sting is unbearable, but she tries to smile just a little. She realizes that her muscles are going numb. She must see the world one more time. She opens her eyes and meets Charmion’s stare. There are no tears in her eyes. She is like a butcher, or a priest at the sacrifice, performing his grim task without emotion. Once Kleopatra is dead, Charmion will be the asp’s next victim, and then Iras will turn the snake on himself, and the three will go to the gods together. Iras has urged Kleopatra to wait for him so that he can adjust her hair before she meets with any divinities.
“Is this a fitting death for your queen?” Kleopatra asks them.
“Yes,” replies Charmion. “Fitting for a queen who is descended of so many kings.”
She is very tired even though she hurts so badly. She feels Charmion put a silk pillow beneath her neck, straightening her crown. Fingers place the tendrils of her hair about her face. She is aware of her breathing, and then, no longer aware of anything at all. She is drifting back to sleep, back to the dream with her father. She sees his face, heavy with concentration and reverence as he picks up his flute. He puckers his lips, but seeing her, smiles.
Kleopatra. The glory to her father. The glory of Egypt. It is about time that you have come to see me again.
He gives her a look of mock chastisement, and then he puts his big bear lips on his pipe and plays the reedy melody that is her favorite.
They are in the Royal Reception Room, just the two of them, as they have been so many times waiting for visitors, and his music fills the room. She sinks deep into her throne, grateful for this stolen time alone with her father, propping her head on her hand, and letting his glorious melody wash over her, cleansing away all the anxieties of the world and bathing her in heavenly delight. She is drifting again, so peacefully that she feels as if she is entering a new dream. Suddenly, a fruity, fine wine is on her lips, waking all her senses, and she hears Antony’s deep laugh, the one that rings out in pleasure and abandon, and the tinkling of goblets meeting one another in a toast of victory.
Author’s Coda
After Kleopatra’s death (30 B.C.E.), Octavian surrendered his power to the Roman senate, and they honored him with the name Augustus (January 27, 29 B.C.E.) which means “the Revered.” He took the new position of First Citizen, and with the skill of a magician, created the illusion of restoring the old values and forms of the Roman Republic, while garnering sovereign power and making himself Rome’s first emperor. He ruled in peace until his death in 14 C.E., using Egypt’s confiscated wealth to rebuild Rome’s infrastructure. He understood Rome’s yearning for their mythical Republican past as well as the impossibility of its actuality in the face of its enormous empire. If I have been unkind to him herewith, it is only to balance the historical record, which has been extremely harsh to Kleopatra and to Antony for two thousand years.
Ultimately, history was written, or rewritten, by the winners. As early as 36 B.C.E., Octavian had begun his revision of historical events and conflicts. The works of Cassius Severus, Titus Labienus, and Timagenes of Alexandria-Octavian’s critics-were destroyed, along with an estimated two thousand books. We can only guess at their contents, but it is safe to assume that any writings favorable to either Kleopatra or Antony were eliminated. During Octavian’s reign, court historians such as Nicolaus of Damascus wrote histories and biographies that
lavished praise upon Rome’s new emperor. In fact, Octavian wrote his own autobiography, fragments of which are preserved. Consequently, Kleopatra’s legacy comes down to us from the pens of the most grievous enemies of Antony and herself
I find it fascinating that historians inevitably overlook Octavian’s extraordinary acts of cruelty and eagerly proclaim him a great and benevolent ruler. He did, in fact, force a pregnant Livia to divorce her husband and marry him. Comments are rarely made on the depravity of this event. He did, in fact, sacrifice hundreds of his fellow Romans after the siege of Perugia. He reneged on his commitments to Antony. He had Caesarion and Antyllus murdered in cold blood. And later in his life, he banished his only child, Julia, to exile on a deserted island for committing adultery. She eventually died there of starvation. It is most interesting that in light of his deeds, Kleopatra is the one who has been marked by history as depraved, coldly ambitious, and amoral. I believe a psychologist would label this “projection.”
Octavian was not always cruel. After Kleopatra’s death, he took her three younger children back to Rome, where they were raised by Octavia. Octavian treated them very well, marrying Kleopatra Selene to King Juba, a learned Numidian monarch and ally of Rome, sending her brothers to live at her court. Selene gave birth to at least one son, but there history loses record of Kleopatra’s line. Antony’s Roman children continued the family tradition of political prominence, and he was ancestor to several Roman emperors.