Page 18 of Cleopatra

18

SERVILIA

C lodia insisted that I came with her to Cleopatra’s party.

I didn’t want to. Perhaps I was the only woman in Rome not curious to see Cleopatra. But Clodia was adamant that people would only talk more if I didn’t attend, and reluctantly I decided she was probably right. For the first time, I decided to wear the pearl Caesar had given me. I would remind Rome of what I meant to him, in case they’d forgotten.

Cleopatra had sent dozens of boats to row us across the Tiber to the party on the opposite bank. The boats had been conveyed here all the way from Alexandria – or else the craftsmen had, for they were in the style of those on the Nile, low and narrow with sharp bows, with Egyptian oarsman to row us across. Clodia took one look and shook her head.

‘Absolutely not. We’re taking mine.’

To my amusement, her own vessel and boatman were already waiting. I was nervous about the party, unusually so, and as we were rowed across I watched the swaying lights of the lanterns and torches with trepidation. As we disembarked and walked through the gardens I sensed all eyes upon me. I felt sticky with their curiosity. To my surprise I felt an odd sympathy for Cleopatra. Their curiosity to see her was greater than it was about my reaction to her.

Brutus arrived with Portia, who to my relief melted away into the crowd, suddenly spotting a friend at the far side of the garden. Brutus moved quickly to my side.

‘How much did you hate the triumph, Mother?’

‘She loathed every moment,’ replied Clodia before I could speak.

‘But you were magnificent, my darling,’ I said.

‘Nonsense. You left before you even saw me. I know you, Mother.’ Brutus laughed and kissed my cheek. As he leaned in, his face grew suddenly serious and he whispered, ‘Cleopatra won’t stay long in Rome. And she has nothing on you.’

I laughed at the sweetness of the lie. Surrounded by my children, and in the company of my son, the evening was becoming tolerable. With a glass of wine and amongst friends, I allowed myself to share in the curiosity about the Egyptian queen.

Initially, I found the pageantry of her entrance absurd. Anyone would have thought that the party was to celebrate Cleopatra and not Caesar. As the music changed from Roman melody into a lascivious foreign ditty, I noticed to my amusement that everyone else was transfixed. They were all butterflies in her net. This was a display to rival Caesar’s own entrance. Not wise perhaps, but then she’d timed it just before his arrival.

I lingered at the edge of the loggia, beside Clodia and Brutus, and watched as the Egyptian queen stood in the doorway at the entrance to the villa, between the marble statues of two gods, waiting there so that the assembled company could marvel at her. She was a goddess amongst other gods, or so her gesture insinuated. The statues were painted marble renditions of Venus and Isis, most skilfully done. Isis bent to kiss the baby Horus in her arms, a kiss offered in perpetuity, never given, love infinitely bestowed. Beside her the Venus was exquisite, with the perfect tilt of her upturned throat. Yet these women’s marbled beauty was cool in its perfection while in contrast Cleopatra had a vividness that even I could sense. She smiled, and looked about her, and appeared to buzz with life and thought. She was short in stature, and her face was pleasing enough but her forehead was too high, her eyes too wide-set. Even though her beauty might be less perfect than that of Venus, she seemed to exude warmth. Candlelight played on her skin. I’d always known she was clever, so of course she knew how to display herself to her best advantage. I was not surprised for Caesar always valued that more than beauty. The intelligent young princess I’d met years ago had grown into a skilful politician.

‘The problem is,’ I whispered to Clodia and Brutus, ‘can a man bed a queen, without sooner or later yearning to be a king himself?’

Clodia laughed, although it was not a joke. Brutus said nothing, only sipped his wine.

‘She’s looking at you,’ whispered Clodia.

To my surprise I realised that she was right, and that the Egyptian queen watched me steadily, her expression pensive. I’d wondered about her; it never occurred to me that she might be curious about me. Did she remember me?

After a moment, Cleopatra disappeared into the villa to await Caesar. We lingered in the gardens, grateful for fresh air. I didn’t attend to the conversation, my mind crowded with thoughts of the Egyptian queen. After some minutes there was an eruption of shouts to the east. Men yelled and there was the frenzied whinny of a horse, the iron clatter of hooves upon stone, and I assumed at first that it was Caesar arrived at last. Brutus, however, gave a small sigh and thrust his cup at a slave, saying, ‘Take this and get me a bucket, will you?’

He hurried away, easing between the other guests, and I heard the bellowing get louder. It was followed by the sound of breaking pottery and a waterfall of laughter. I followed behind, curious. I discovered Brutus standing in the vestibule with Marc Antony draped over his shoulders like a cloak. Marc Antony was tall and broad with thick glossy curls and the rosy cheeks of an infant. Yet, this softness was at odds with the solid bulk of his arm muscles, their tendons like coiled rope. There were livid scars criss-crossing over his arms and neck and I guessed that they continued beneath his tunic, hatching his chest and back. Here was a warrior who displayed his battle scars as Cleopatra did her jewels and diadems. The man himself was so sodden with drink he could barely stand, but grinned through wine-stained teeth and began to sing crude songs about the women Caesar had bedded. To my relief, he omitted my name. Then, if he’d uttered it, I would have slapped him. Fulvia hurried to him, her lips a narrow line of distaste.

‘Antony, come sit and eat something to soak up the wine in your belly. I can hear it sloshing about like a ship on rough waves,’ said Brutus, interrupting Antony’s lascivious ballad.

He ignored my son and began to sing again.

‘Antony, do shut up,’ snapped Fulvia.

Antony made to reply and then leaned over and retched. The slave was ready for it, holding out the bucket underneath Antony’s chin. Fulvia stepped forward and now supported him with surprising strength, as a narrow stake holds up a leaning tree. Antony vomited loudly into the bucket, chatting amiably between heaving bouts.

‘Well, fair ladies? What did you think of the show?’ he asked, glancing at me and Fulvia.

He could not hear our reply over the sound of his own spasms. I was thoroughly revolted by the spectacle and wondered why Fulvia would choose to marry such a specimen. If he had hidden depths, they were truly submerged.

On finishing, Antony handed the bucket back to the slave with good cheer, totally unembarrassed. He grabbed another cup of wine from a passing slave, swilled the liquid round his mouth and then spat out the contents into the bucket.

‘I liked the lions best. I think we should have lions to draw our chariot, Fulvia,’ declared Antony.

‘No, thank you. We shall not,’ she replied sharply.

Antony laughed with apparent delight. ‘I love it when you fight with me. But you know I always win.’

‘I know no such thing,’ replied Fulvia.

While they bickered, I noticed a change blowing across the other guests. Voices softened, becalmed. It was as if the air itself had suddenly stirred and thickened. I glanced about for Cleopatra and saw that she alone did not react. Through the archway, she moved smiling amongst her guests and did not look towards the door.

‘Come, Antony, Caesar approaches,’ said Brutus.

Antony, like Cleopatra, was unperturbed. He grinned, pleased as Caesar entered flanked by his Praetorian guards on either side. Everyone watched, and one by one, senators scurried forward to shower him with compliments. For all their grovelling, none of them bowed as this was Rome and there are no kings here. Cleopatra observed from a little distance away in the tablinum, making no move towards him. Yet, I noted that she was careful to stand beneath the most gilded spot on the ceiling, surrounded by a constellation of candles, so that she was heavenly lit. Whatever the chatter of my fellow citizens, I understood that she was no concubine of Egypt, she did not need to rush over and join the band of sycophants. She waited for him to come to her. I remained still, watching them all.

Antony, unabashed and apparently indifferent to protocol or ceremony, strode forward and pushing the others aside embraced his friend, kissing his cheek. I noticed Caesar wince and recoil on observing how drunk he was, his kisses sour with drying vomit. His gaze rested on me for a moment, our eyes met, and he gave a tiny smile, acknowledging me, and I could tell that he was pleased I had come. Seeing his pleasure, I was almost glad I had.

Senators continued to crowd him, lobbing congratulations and obsequious praise at him. In their white togas they made me think of woolly ewes crushed around a bale of hay. I watched in amusement as Caesar extricated himself; he wanted none of them now, he looked only for Cleopatra. Noticing her through the arches, he strode towards her, guests parting before him.

Turning, she smiled at him and opened her arms. In the candlelight, dressed in robes shot through with gold thread, her skin seemed to glow. Her black hair was woven in tight knots upon her head, so dark it blended with the shadows, and the massive jewels hanging around her chest made her throat appear naked and impossibly slender.

I felt a pang, not of jealousy, but sadness and concern. It was clear to me now that if he did not love her, then he was infatuated. I worried that his judgement was off, spoiled like old meat. Her slave had traced kohl around her eyes, and now they shone with an appearance of mischief and delight. For a moment, I saw her as Caesar did: an earthbound star, shimmering amongst sweating mortals. I was conscious of my plain dress, the grey streaking my hair. Even the pearl around my throat seemed absurd gilding, I never should have worn it. I felt ridiculous. And then I chided myself for my foolishness. Caesar did not love me for my face, but for my mind, and that had only sharpened even if my jawline had softened just a little.

Clodia tried to tug me away, clearly concerned, but I shook her off. I had to watch them. I admired the queen’s skill. There was witchery in it. She conjured a whiff of the divine from the air like a naiad is summoned from its tree or pool. I might not approve, but I could understand his fascination with her. He took her in his arms then leaned forward and whispered in her ear and she gave a small, private smile. Everyone else was watching them too, silent.

I didn’t like seeing her beside Caesar. Not out of envy, but because her youth and energy showed Caesar’s age in sharp relief. Beside her, Caesar appeared mighty but worn, a marvellous statue with its nose chipped by years of winter frosts, edges sloughed away. The bare spot on the top of his head was mottled and sunburned, starting to flake. For the first time, I could see it as the fading of the light at summer’s end. I had not noticed it before. And, if I sensed the decline of Caesar, so soon would the rest of Rome. He kissed her slowly and deliberately on each cheek. There was a dangerous stillness all about them. I wanted to stride over there and shake him, hiss at him to be careful, beware.

The guests shuffled aside as a small procession came into the room accompanied by the sweet music of a dozen flutes. Several slaves acting as nurses were dedicated to the care of young Ptolemy, Cleopatra’s younger brother, who trailed behind. He looked about twelve, gawky and scowling, a child on the edge of adolescence. The guests looked on, fascinated. Little Ptolemy was not only Cleopatra’s brother, but her husband. As I glanced around their faces – all petrified with delighted horror – I knew they were all trying to decide whether they had fucked. Caesar told me they had not. I would not tell though, let the rest of Rome be mesmerised by their prurient imaginings.

Cleopatra gestured to a young female slave carrying a stout and wriggling toddler to come to her. The slave passed the writhing baby to its mother. The child had golden skin like Cleopatra and the curling hair of Caesar before it started to thin. The babe began to buck and howl, tired and unhappy in the crowded room full of strange and hostile eyes. Caesar’s son. Now I felt a fierce pang. In this sobbing, wriggling boy with his tear-streaked cheeks and runny nose, Egypt and Rome were united, but so too were Cleopatra and Caesar, joined in parenthood. She shared something with him that I could not.

‘What’s he going to do?’ whispered Clodia. ‘He ought to ignore the brat if he knows what’s good for him.’

‘How do we even know it’s Caesar’s issue?’ wondered Brutus. ‘They say she’s bedded half her court.’

I waved at them both to shush. ‘I taught you better than to listen to rumour. Look at the child, let your own eyes answer your question. Of course he is Caesar’s.’

For once, I realised that I did not know how Caesar would react – erupt in fury that she’d allowed the child downstairs amongst company? Dismiss him in contempt? Either would surely spell catastrophe for Cleopatra. Was this what I wanted? I didn’t know.

Then, Caesar stepped closer still and bestowed another kiss upon Cleopatra’s upturned face and a moment later, before the array of senators and citizens of Rome, he placed a kiss upon his young son’s forehead, publicly acknowledging him. The boy continued to howl, turning rigid in his fear and rage, oblivious that he’d just been recognised as the son of the most powerful man in the world. Everyone else understood the significance. The last of the air seemed to be sucked out so quickly that I wondered that all the candles did not extinguish. I felt the hiss of disapproval and contempt as poisonous vapour. Neither Cleopatra nor Caesar appeared to care. I clenched my fists at my sides, furious at their obliviousness.