5 hours ago
5
Witch, whore, villain – there are few women who have been as vilified through history as Cleopatra VII. The disdain of ancient sources that sought to dismiss her as exotic and seductive has corrupted her legacy. But I take pleasure in knowing that her name has permeated through time with far more recognition than the men who wrote about her. Ask a 10-year-old child who Plutarch is and they’ll scrunch up their brows – but Cleopatra? Their eyes light up with glee.
Mine did when I was tasked by my schoolteacher to draw Cleopatra. My small hands searched through the box of crayons. I picked up the brown, its tip pristine from lack of use. It was the loneliest colour in the box, used only to draw mud or bark. The face I drew reflected my own in features and colour.
Years later I began studying for a master’s in African studies at Soas. As someone with Ghanaian, Sudanese and British heritage, I was hungry to put a name to my feelings of displacement, and curious too, to understand why the younger version of me had found commonality with Cleopatra.
My interest did not lie in debating the shade of Cleopatra’s skin – enough breath has been spent on that by others – but rather why I felt connected to her. Though time separated Cleopatra and me, it wasn’t as many years as I had first thought. She lived closer in time to my birth than she did the pyramids, which were ancient relics to her, already covered in graffiti.
I learned – with nose deep in my own books – that Cleopatra had been a scholar too. She was a polyglot and could speak at least eight languages. Her interest in alchemy and healing remedies was cited in later texts, suggesting she’d once published her own research.
I followed the threads of Cleopatra’s myth back through time, seeking to recreate the tapestry of her life. I say myth, because Cleopatra’s legacy has meandered through poems, plays, films and even video games. Her story has burgeoned far beyond what history has taught us. Elizabeth Taylor is as important in the creation of her image as the ancient sources. Her sexualised portrayal, against the backdrop of the most expensive set ever made, sustained her myth as a seductress, an enchantress – a woman with more money than sense, who would happily dissolve a priceless pearl in vinegar for the amusement of her guests.
But the more I learned about Cleopatra, the more I realised we know nothing at all. Primary sources from Cleopatra’s time are all but nonexistent. Even Plutarch – whose chronicling of Antony and Caesar’s lives went on to influence Shakespeare’s plays – wrote his stories more than 100 years after Cleopatra died. The threads I had followed back through time had frayed and been cut short.
Suetonius, Appian and Dio similarly penned their accounts after Cleopatra’s death but were most notably distinguished by two determining factors. One: they were all Roman and so had more to gain by claiming she corrupted their leaders than by describing her as an intelligent woman capable of strategic partnerships. And two: they were men. Their misogyny was the sharpest weapon they wielded. It was far easier to label her meretrix regina (“harlot queen”) than admit that she was worthy of Caesar or Antony’s love.
My studies inspired me to write an historical fiction about the great queen. But what I had thought was going to be a rich and detailed pool of sources to cite from was in fact a cesspit of propaganda and ancient court gossip. Cleopatra was the antithesis of the Roman world; opulent, feminine, wayward. Even the tale of the dissolving pearl (told a century after Cleopatra died by Pliny the Elder) was a way to venerate Roman restraint over Egyptian luxury.
I was also painfully aware that very few ancient sources outside the Greek and Roman world existed. If I wanted to add complexity and nuance to Cleopatra’s multicultural life, I’d have to look further than what had survived through the eyes of men who sought to discredit her. But that left me at an impasse – where does one search for history beyond the written word?
I came to realise that “pure” history didn’t exist, like fiction it always has a narrative. Which gave me an idea: could I use my experiences and those of the women around me to colour in the gaps of Cleopatra’s story? My research turned inward, and I soon realised that the book I wanted to write about Cleopatra wasn’t going to be a historical fiction after all, it was going to be a memoir.
The novel came together quickly after that. It was only in editing the book that I saw the extent of my own experiences reflected on the page. Her struggle in early motherhood is particularly relatable as I began to write in the weeks after giving birth to my son. And though I have never known the weight of running a country, I do know the feeling of walking into a boardroom full of men intent on dismissing my voice.
My rendition of Cleopatra refuses to be silent. She is as thoughtful as she is cunning, with a mind sharper than any give her credit for. But she wasn’t always so confident and that growth from uncertainty to boldness is a trajectory I recognise. She is a queen striving to do the best she can in a world where men are more likely to listen to her five-year-old son than her. But even your best can look like failure. My Cleopatra is allowed to make mistakes. It’s what makes her human.
Cleopatra’s story was a tale I had longed to tell. The story of a woman othered, misunderstood, mistreated. Sadly, it’s a tale many women recognise, making her legacy today more relevant than ever. Though thousands of years separate us, our worlds aren’t all that different. Day by day I watch as our governments inch closer to the authoritarian brutality of the ancient kingdoms. Women’s rights are being squandered, democracy challenged. I wonder if the Roman insignia stole Cleopatra’s breath as the St George’s flag does mine?
But there is one thing Cleopatra has taught me – resilience is timeless. The victors may write history, but they cannot take our memories. We will remember. We will endure.
-
Cleopatra by Saara El-Arifi is published by Harper Collins. To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com
