Read The Memoirs of Cleopatra for Free Online Page B

around made this seem, for a moment, like the night sky, turned upside down. And in the midst of the stars, like the sun itself, lay Alexander of Macedon. I would approach slowly, and then when I reached him I would stare long and hard.
    He didn’t look alive—I must say that straightway. He looked like a painted statue, and his features were rigid. He was wearing a polished breastplate, but no helmet, and his golden hair had not faded. His hands were crossed on his breast.
    “O Alexander,” I would murmur, “please look down on your earthly descendant and relative. We are the last of your empire to survive, we Ptolemies in Egypt. All the rest have been swallowed up by Rome. And even now my father is there, begging them to keep him on his throne. We have become renters of our own kingdom, our own throne, with Rome as our landlord!
    “What must you think of this, Mighty Alexander? Help us! Help us to extricate ourselves! Do not let us go down into those Roman maws!”
    Of course he never answered; he just lay there serenely. Still, being in his presence brought me comfort. He had existed, and had faced great problems too, and had overcome them.
    Coming back out into the dazzling sunlight always felt strange, the journey from the land of the dead back to the living. The tomb sat at the crossroads of our city where the wide Canopian Way, running the whole length of the city from east to west, intersected the street of the Soma as it ran from the south lake of Mareotis to the sea in the north. Always when I looked down that wide white street, with its marble colonnades stretching as far as the eye could see, I knew it could not be given up—that whatever Father had to do to keep it, that was what he must do.
    In his absence, the people continued to cry out against him. How could he stand by and see Cyprus taken away? What sort of weakling was he?
    It was all his fault—the helpless, pitiful king, the one they called Auletes because he was so fond of flute-playing and music. Once it had been an affectionate name, bestowed with indulgent love; now it became a slur.
    The drunken little flute-player…filthy weakling…effeminate musician, reeling in wine…these were all the names I heard as I passed through the streets of Alexandria on my way back and forth to the Soma. Once the people had enjoyed the festivals of Dionysus he provided for them, but now they derided him for the very same. They had drunk his wine readily enough themselves, but their memories were short. Those who say I do not know what the jeering crowd at Rome would be like are wrong. I know jeering crowds.
    It was always a relief to be admitted back into the palace grounds. (Would Alexander have felt relief? Would he be ashamed of me that I did?) Inside the Palace, peace and respect were always shown—outwardly, at least. Always, that is, until the day I returned from Alexander’s side and found that a revolution had taken place.
     
    Everything looked the same. There was nothing to make me suspect that anything had changed: The gardeners were busy at their tasks, watering and pruning; the servants were washing the marble steps of the main building, the one with the audience chamber and banquet hall, with slow, languid movements. I passed by on my way back to the smaller building where we royal children lived, when suddenly a tall guard yelled “Halt!” at me. His voice was rough and peremptory. He stood blocking the entrance to my quarters, scowling.
    I recognized him; he was one whose guarding had always been somewhat careless. Now he glared at me. No one had ever spoken to me like that.
    “You may not enter!” he barked.
    “What do you mean?” I asked. Was there some danger in there? A fire? Or even an animal on the loose? Perhaps one of my sister’s pet panthers had slipped its leash and run away.
    “Until your loyalty is ascertained, I have orders to detain you. And where have you been? No one could find you.” He made a step toward me. But