The Memoirs of Cleopatra by Margaret George Page A

in his armor. Father had successfully exploited one—with Egyptian money. One must always have money.
     
    Father made it clear that the Romans were welcome to stay in Alexandria—for a short time. Then they should discreetly remove themselves. But first there was to be a Dionysian festival to celebrate the King’s restoration to the throne. He saw himself as the descendant of that mysterious god of wine, of joy and drama and life itself. In the great festivals of Bacchus—the god’s Roman name—he sought release and ecstasy and belonging: all the things he could not find in Alexandria in the broad daylight, dazzling though it is in that city of cities.
     
    In readying myself for the formal procession through the streets, I was acutely aware that I would be the object of intense curiosity. I, hitherto the third child and practically unnoticed, was now the heir. Everyone would want to assess me; all eyes would be upon me. I went through anguish in choosing my costume, having my hair dressed. And when it was finished, I knew I would look in the mirror and have the answer that had been so long in coming. Was I beautiful? Pleasing? Special? Would a timely jar of beauty from Persephone open itself for me?
    I settled on a hairstyle that hung down around my shoulders. I was still young enough to wear a girl’s hairdo, and I knew that my hair was pretty—no sense in hiding it before its time. It was almost black, thick and shiny, with a slight curl to it. And I chose for my dress a thin white linen, knowing that nothing becomes black hair like a white dress. I wanted to wear the tight style of older Egypt, since my shape was slim, but Grecian style fitted the occasion better, with all its floating folds.
    At least I no longer had to bind my breasts; the death of Berenice had ended that. I could let my body speak for itself. And my breasts—even in my critical eyes, I could find no fault in them.
    As I finished dressing, I saw Arsinoe reflected in the mirror behind me—Arsinoe, who had all the conventional beauty I longed for.
    I moved the mirror so her image vanished. And then I studied myself, tried to imagine a stranger seeing me. And I was not displeased.
    If I saw her, I thought, I would want to know her better.
    I shrugged, and put the mirror down, as I bent to select the appropriate jewelry. Perhaps that was the best verdict anyone could reasonably hope for: If I saw her, I would want to know her better .
     
    Now, as we rode at a stately ceremonial pace through Alexandria, I watched the crowd lining both sides of the wide streets. The procession had begun at the palace, then wound its way past Alexander’s tomb, past the long, colonnaded Gymnasion, past the Library, the Temple of Serapis, the artificial hill of the park of Pan, the theater—all the monuments of our great city. The vast, excitable crowd today was cheering, climbing on roofs to see us, shinnying up columns, straddling statues. Since we were following in the wake of Dionysus and his wineskins, by the time we came upon them, the people were flushed and merry and forgiving. These were the very same people who had rioted when a Roman soldier accidentally killed a sacred cat—unstable, violent. Today they were our devoted partisans. Tomorrow?
    Far behind us, to signify the end of the procession, walked a man costumed as Hesperus, the evening star.
    At length we reached our destination: the Stadium, transformed into a pavilion where the festivities would take place. The normal open-air field had been roofed over with a lattice of ivy- and grape-entwined beams, supported by columns shaped like Dionysus’s sacred wand. The brilliant afternoon sunlight filtered through the green leaves as we entered the cave of the god, to the rites of drunkenness and ecstasy.
    Or, rather, my father entered it. As a devotee of the god, he took it upon himself to seek union with Dionysus by way of wine. While the rest of us sampled the new vintage from the vineyards of the