Cleopatra died on this day. 31 BCE. Still caring about it?
Sometimes I think Cleopatra, whether immortalised by the transcendent Amanda Barrie or rendered in coarser strokes by lesser known thespians such as Vivien Leigh or Elizabeth Taylor, has never been played with sufficient, how shall we say, “rusticity”. Given that these Egypto-Macedonians didn’t exactly enjoy an Olympic sized gene pool, it’s a wonder Cleo wasn’t adept at playing the banjo.
Parental decisions within that family operated within a fairly tight orbit.
“If it’s a girl we’ll call it Cleopatra. And if it’s a boy, we’ll call it Ptolemy. After its father, brothers, uncles, cousins, grandparents, great grandparents and all over-lapping variants thereof.” Their family tree must have resembled a flow chart.
But all the sources agree, that despite all the in-breeding she was a consummate artist. Perhaps her death anniversary is more significant than her birthday – whenever that was, assuming we could ever find out when that was. If Plutarch and…
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