I did not drown my sorrows in drink. I could not comfort myself in Antony’s way, telling myself I’d no reason to be sad or taking another warm body into my bed. Antony had married somebody other than me, he had married a Roman, therefore (I don’t know where I get the “therefore”) he had made his fortune. Octavia was good-looking (I had no doubts on that score). She was much younger than I. She was accommodating. The triumvir had clearly had excellent luck.
My Roman had forgotten me. He was not preparing the immense gifts I deserved to receive on behalf of his twin children. He had betrayed our alliance. But enough of that! I was not going to toss stones in the air for the pleasure of having them fall on me a second time. Nothing of the sort! We would continue to be allies. He had no reason to go back on our alliance. He would continue to be my patron in Rome, as I would continue to be his Egyptian friend. It would not become a personal matter.
Nevertheless, my grief brought down on me a sense of total death, the way the footprint attracts the hunter’s dog. I lost all hope of ever seeing him again. I had lost the Roman Empire both for myself and for my children. If it had not been for my wise attendants who managed to cope with the affairs of state, I might have lost Egypt itself. I do not know how I did not lose the twins I carried in my womb, hidden deep inside me, invisible to the world.
One detail made things even worse; the other triumvir, whom I had long considered my enemy, bore the same name as the new wife. I gave this an exaggerated importance. Octavia was the sister of Octavius, but what I could not bear was the similarity of their names. Now that I was no longer Antony’s partner, it was she who had supplanted me, a woman from the opposing side, Octavia. Of course, she had to be his perfect counterpart, his complement. With her beside him, he was sure to be serenely happy, he had to be — or so I imagined — at peace with himself and others. Now he must surely have what I had been incapable of giving him, a harmonious pact with the world at large. The torments that had persecuted him when I was at his side, could not be harassing him now in Rome, of that I was sure. He would not be replacing Octavia with a slavegirl. With her as his wife, life would run smoothly. With her, the ugly side of his disposition would be erased, beaten down, exorcized. Antony and Octavia had to be mirrors of each other, complete partners, beings finally brought to fulfilment.
I felt not only abandoned but defeated, even destroyed. I had loved nobody more than him, never. With no other was I so wildly, so wholly in love. With nobody else had I felt so solid, so strong and secure. But now my love meant nothing to him. His Octavia, the perfect partner, bore the name of the second triumvir, the usurper who had snatched from my son the inheritance his father had freely left him; with him for a brother-in-law Antony would live a life smooth to the touch, like the finest sand. Time would do no damage to him and his wife. They were two perfectly happy creatures. And I was the displaced one, a woman without use, a victim of robbery. A nothing. And the nothing did nothing but lament her situation. I had handed myself over to my grief.
One morning a shaft of sunlight fell on my bed and awoke me. A draft of cool air accompanied it. My faithful Charmian had raised the canopy of my bed and set beside me a basket of rose petals, and so that I could enjoy their aroma more, had half-opened the balcony door. Every day she tried to delight me with this or that little surprise. The sudden ray of sunlight, the cool breeze, and the smell of rose petals transported me aloft to a time when Mark Antony did not exist for me, when Cleopatra was therefore fully alive and in her heart there glistened a pearl of happiness.
But they did not bring to mind a particularly tranquil and joyous moment. My mind went back to the time when I had been deposed from the throne of Egypt by the clique around Ptolemy, my brother and husband. General Achilles was in pursuit of me. Along with my personal bodyguard, I took flight in the hope of mustering reinforcements. The troops in Pelusium had sided with us and agreed to admit us into their city. The petals and the breeze had wafted my thoughts to the light, four-horsed chariot in which General Aristarchus and I were riding. Roses and wind carried me back to that journey across the desert. After several days of headlong flight, we were in the final stretch, heading toward the walled city. The sunset and a low breeze had distracted me from my sorrows, for the general had a sweet-smelling mouth, scented with roses, and neither the sand nor the speed of the light chariot could dissipate the smell. It filled me with desire for the man who would lead the army with which we planned to recover Egypt. The smell of his mouth transformed the warrior-in-arms into a handsome hero who delighted my heart. It drove away all thoughts of my predicament. There in the twilight, before we reached Pelusium, I recovered my strength, I felt confident of my power, for my heart leapt with joy at the breath of Aristarchus. If life had rushed into me then on the road to Pelusium, a queen without a throne; if the caressing scent from a mouth that smelled of roses had been enough to recover my composure when I was cornered and lost; if that alone could set the heart within me leaping with joy, what then of now? Here on my bed of sorrow, had it not happened again? The combination of the scent of roses, the cooling wind, and the light shimmering through the canopy of my bed had restored me. For a second time, thanks to the petals, the breeze, and the light, my heart raced with Aristarchus toward Pelusium and returned to life in the instant. Thanks to them, I regained my sense of my own identity. I knew who I was, what the wind was, what the petals were, what the sun was. My life was there to be lived; with the stroke of a feather I could brush away Mark Antony, his betrayal and his caprices.
I got up from my bed, almost dancing. I called my ministers together and spent the morning bringing myself up-to-date on the affairs of state. Nobody referred to my depression or to the Roman. He was now dead to me, a stranger I had no cause to mourn, for he was long gone from us. While they combed my hair, I heard a maid whispering that the acrobats and comedians from Thebes were putting on a show that night in Alexandria. That night, Apollodorus and I exchanged our fine robes for the simple, white, woven garments of shepherds, and without advising the palace, we slipped out. In our disguises we watched the show. The witty comedians left us chortling, while the acrobats kept our nerves in suspense. Indistinguishable from the common people, we made our exit, doing what everyone else was doing. Here and there we halted to listen to the street musicians. We applauded them, and then we danced, hugging each other like youngsters, mixing with the simple, happy crowds. Apollodorus and I — as well as the children developing inside my happy flesh — got drunk on cheap wine. My faithful servant bought a pint of it for a few pennies from a woman who made us drink it out of grotesque cups. Mine was in the shape of an elderly man, with long, floppy legs that wrapped around his neck. Apollodorus got one like the torso of a woman with three breasts. Both were painted in startling colors.